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neellscapsule · 3 days ago

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My Heart — Part One

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic slight yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, a bit of trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

next.

New York never felt like home, but it became the closest thing you could hold on to.

You’ve built a life here — tall, untouchable. You’ve shaped it with your own hands, your own colors, your own breath. Nothing about it belongs to the Waynes. Not the apartment nestled above a quiet coffee shop in the Lower East Side, not the canvases drying in the corners, not the framed articles about your exhibitions, not the soft hum of the city seeping through your open window at dawn.

You’ve never liked the quiet.

Which is ironic, considering how desperately you’ve built your life around it.

It follows you now, trailing after you like a shadow, as you pad barefoot across the creaking floorboards of your apartment. Your studio smells like turpentine and old coffee, acrylic paint staining your fingers, charcoal smudged beneath your fingernails. The city hums below you—cars honking, people yelling, life happening. But up here? It’s quiet.

You carved out this life for yourself—a life apart from Wayne Manor’s echoing halls, the Bat‑family’s midnight discipline, the nosey of Alfred, even your father’s distant pride. You’d rather have these narrow, straight streets than that cavernous mansion filled with ghosts.

Eye to eye, the portrait looks at you, analyzing, judging. It's almost like you are the prey, and she is the hunter. Huntress. Hadn't that been your name once? That stupid nickname that only your family knew about?

With that, you decide that that piece is never going out to life.

Here, you’re Y/N Wayne, and people know you because your paintings make them feel something. They know you because your words drip off pages like slow, sticky honey, because the chords you compose linger like ghosts. They know you. Not her.

Not the Huntress.

Not the child who spent her teenage years leaping across rooftops in desperate silence.

Not the kid who wanted, so painfully, to be seen.

“Y/N, are you listening?”

You blink, eyes pulling away from the list of upcoming press engagements your manager slid across the table. Ms. Morley — always Morley, never her first name — has her arms crossed, her expression calm but expectant.

You offer a polite, measured nod. “Yes, I’m listening.”

Her mouth twitches, something between a sigh and a smile. She’s used to this version of you: distant, composed, pleasant, but just far enough away that she’ll never get in.

“This showcase is the most important event of your career. You know that.”

You do. You know it in your bones. You’ve spent a decade painting your way here, clawing through the cement of your own insignificance to find something — anything — that could be yours.

It’s a refined gallery in SoHo. Exclusive, prestigious. People from the Met will be there. Patrons from across the Atlantic. Journalists whose words can either fold you into legend or erase you like you never existed.

“This is the kind of night that defines an artist,” Morley continues, sliding her tablet toward you, the event details highlighted in sharp white. “And the kind of night the press eats up.”

You keep your back straight, your breathing steady. “I understand.”

Her gaze sharpens, thoughtful. “We need your family there.”

The name curls in your stomach like bad wine. You lower your eyes to the tablet, as if rereading the date will change what she’s about to say.

“They should be there. All of them.”

Your throat dries, but your voice doesn’t falter. “They won’t come.”

“Maybe not. But the invitation matters. Publicly.” Her fingers tap softly against the glass table, a steady beat. “Their presence will shift the entire narrative around you. It gives your work weight in their circles. It’ll make people pay attention.”

People already pay attention. That’s why you moved here. That’s why you don’t sign your paintings with your last name. That’s why you carefully, deliberately, separated yourself from the empire back in Gotham.

“I don’t want to invite them.”

Morley doesn’t flinch. She never does. She’s not unkind, but she is immovable.

“You don’t have to want it,” she says simply. “You have to do it.”

You hate that she’s right.

You hate that part of you — the small, broken part — still wants them to come. Still craves to be seen. Still aches for Bruce’s approval, even now, even after you’ve stopped asking for it.

You press your fingers together, folding them tightly until the knuckles burn.

“They won’t come,” you whisper.

“They might surprise you.”

They won’t.

You’ve lived your entire life in the spaces they didn’t bother to fill. You remember what it felt like to sit in the Manor’s library, waiting for Bruce to come home, waiting to tell him about your mission, about how you stopped a robbery on your own. You remember how the words curdled in your throat when he brushed past you, eyes already on the next crisis, the next son, the next city to save.

Dick was the golden child. Jason was the loud one, the troublemaker, the broken boy everyone wanted to fix.

You were just… there.

You grew up alongside them, but you were never that much with them. Of course, your older brothers are much of your favorite part of your childhood; Dick teaching you about gymnastics before he became Robin. Jason being just one year older than you, close as nail and dirt before he died. You two became heroes together.

He, the second Robin. You, the only Huntress. You remember the night you saved a group of hostages from a deranged gunman. Sixteen, trembling, adrenaline high — Dick found you afterward, mascara bleeding, but alive. He didn’t say much. Just put his arm around you. That was the only time you felt he believed in you, briefly.

You remember, too, being a child in the manor: cold corridors, even colder glances, father absorbed in his mission, brothers leaving home, returning with scars. Your own scars—emotional, silent, winding through your teenage years.

You weren’t the strategist like Tim, or the quiet weapon like Cass. Your mind wasn't as fast as Barbara's. You weren’t the prodigy like Damian. You weren’t even the spirit like Stephanie.

You were just the girl who tried. The one who stayed polite. The one who made her own costume, patrolled the streets no one cared about, picked up the pieces the rest of them left behind.

The one they forgot to love properly.

It's not that they don't love you. A small part of them must have to love you, as you love them, as much as you hate them. Your father loved you, once, you surely remember that; and he did love you, you were sure of that, just not as much as you really wished.

You spent your teen years similar to the image he gave. Spoiled, charming. The public loved you, still does, you are more than confident of that. Intelligent, sporty, an artist. Someone who loved Gotham, despite all.

“I’ll send the invitations,” you say at last, voice steady. “One for each.”

Morley gives a small nod of approval. “Thank you. It matters.”

You offer her a polite smile, but inside, something crumbles, quiet and familiar.

When the meeting ends, you walk back to your apartment in the gray afternoon haze, the memory of rain clinging to the pavement. You don’t want to write to them. You don’t want to remember.

But you do. You always do.

You sit at your desk — the one you built yourself, the one with the scratches from moving it too many times — and you pull out eight envelopes.

One for each of them.

You start with Bruce. The paper stays blank for a long time. What do you even say to the man who shaped your entire life by not showing up to it?

You remember him in fragments — his voice, his scent, the way his cape would brush your shoulder when you were little and you’d sneak into the Batcave just to see him. His soft smile when you rested by his side in the couch. You remember the big parties he threw at every single one of your birthdays, but you can't remember enjoying them.

Father, I’m showcasing a new collection in three weeks. You are welcome to attend if you wish. It will be at the Holburne Gallery, in New York. I imagine your schedule is full, but I wanted you to have the information.

You hesitate.

I hope you’re well.

That’s all you write. That’s all you can.

You sign your name — just your first name — and fold the letter carefully.

You seal the envelope, knowing he probably won’t come. Knowing that if he does, he’ll stand at the back of the room like a stranger. Knowing he won’t say he’s proud. But you send it anyway.

The eldest of your siblings was next. You adored Richard. He had been the one you had most envied and admired at the same time. You were always just a step behind him. Always the little sister, never the partner.

Hi, Dick.

I’m presenting a new collection soon. It’s in New York. I thought you might like to know. You don’t have to come, of course. But you’re invited. Hope you’re well.

You sign it.

You try not to think about the Christmas he forgot to call. The birthday he skipped. The voicemail he never answered.

You and Jason always understood each other in a way that didn’t need words. Which is why the silence between you now feels like betrayal. His death had been . . . harsh on you. And then he came back. Nothing like the boy you remembered. Nothing similar to your rebellious yet sweet brother.

Jason, You can leave early. You’d probably hate it.

You sign it.

You remember when you were kids, and he called you his “annoying little shadow.” You remember the first time he died. You remember visiting his grave every week, even when no one else did.

You remember when he came back, and didn’t call you.

Cass was the quiet one, but she was always the first to notice when you were drowning. She never said much, but she looked at you like she saw you, and maybe that’s why her absence cuts the sharpest.

Cass, There’s an exhibition. In New York. In three weeks. I think you’d like the paintings. They’re about what we don’t say. I’d like it if you came.

You don’t need to say more. She’ll understand.

She always did. You understand a bit less than her, but you were the first who learned sign language for her, and you resent her a bit when your father's eyes look at her.

Tim was younger than you, merely by two years. The brilliant one. The one who could solve everything except the rift between you. You don't really remember a time where you two actually got along. You were too hurt by Jason's death when he arrived. When your father replaced him.

There’s a show. I don’t know if you’d want to come. It’s not your scene. But you’re invited.

You almost don’t send his letter.

But you do.

You and Stephanie were always too similar in the worst ways — the loud, overlooked ones who made themselves easy to forget.

But you liked her.

Art show. New York. Three weeks. Come if you want. There’ll be wine.

You sign it.

You remember the time she hugged you after a mission and told you that you were her hero in her eyes.

You remember that you stopped trying to be a hero that time.

Duke and you really don't know each other that much. You call him your brother, because in a way he is, but you are not really sure how much of a sister you are to him. If he calls you that or simply by your name. Probably the latest.

I’m having a show. You’re invited. You don’t have to come. Just thought you should know.

It feels strange to write to someone you barely knew. But he’s family. Whatever that means.

Damian was the hardest of them all: your blood, his blood, all the same. You share some gestures, gestures you both have from Bruce. You carry on your veins the same liquid that runs through his. He carries with his twisted hate to you. You do with tangled love.

Damian, You probably have already read the other letters by now, but I thought you should be sent one too. I formally invite you to the presentation. Please, don't bring knives or any weapon if you are going to come.

You sign that one with less happiness.

You write one more. For Alfred.

Alfred, I would love it if you came to my show. It would mean everything to me. You’re the only one I really want there. There is a painting dedicated to you. Hope you can see it with your own eyes and not in a photo.

You hesitate. You seal it.

For the first time all day, you allow yourself to feel the weight of it — the years you spent chasing them, the ache that never quite went away. The child in you still wants them to come. Still wants to believe they’ll show up.

But you know better.

You send the letters anyway.

Wayne Manor has never really been quiet.

Not in the honest sense.

The walls hum, always. The distant rattle of the grandfather clock, the soft padding of Alfred’s shoes against marble, the slow groan of old staircases. Even when no one is speaking, the house breathes.

Dick’s never minded that. Silence always had a weight in this place. And right now, it sits heavy on his shoulders as he drags himself down the long hall, wiping dried blood off the side of his chin with the edge of his sleeve.

The night had been rough. Long patrol in Blüdhaven. Longer arguments with Bruce over the comms. His knuckles still ache from where they met a thug’s jaw a little too hard, and his ribs burn with every breath.

He wants nothing more than to shower, crash in his old bed, and pretend—just for tonight—that the world isn’t asking him to carry it.

But as he turns the corner toward his room, something sharp cracks against the wooden floor down the hall.

It’s faint. Small. A box, maybe.

Dick pauses, body tense out of habit, head tilting toward the sound. No one should be up here. Damian with Titus, outside; Jason god knows where, Cass deeply asleep, Tim’s probably holed up somewhere with three screens on, and Alfred—well, Alfred would never let something fall.

Curiosity edges in, overtaking the tiredness. Carefully, quietly, he turns the knob. The door creaks softly as it swings open, revealing a space frozen in time.

It takes him a second to realize where he is.

The walls are bare now. The bed is made, but unused. The shelves are mostly empty except for a few scattered photo frames, one or two stuffed animals slumped in the corner, a cracked mug filled with stiff, dry brushes. It’s not as full as he remembers — a few boxes stacked neatly in corners, the bed made with precision that screams “Alfred.”

But what gives it away—what pulls the air straight out of his lungs—is the pale pink ribbon draped over the desk chair, with “Y/N Wayne” written in the soft, looping scrawl he remembers.

His sister’s room.

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not the warm, cluttered mess it used to be. He remembers tripping over sketchbooks here. He remembers her sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands smeared with charcoal, beaming at him as she shoved a half-finished drawing in his face.

He hasn’t stepped foot in here since…

God, when was the last time? Her high school graduation? No, even before that.

The faint smell of old books and faint perfume lingers — something subtle, floral, long faded. On the floor, near the desk, a box has fallen open. Papers, notebooks, and loose photos spill across the hardwood, an unintentional mess.

Dick sighs, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Alfred’s gonna kill me if I leave this here,” he mutters to himself, crouching down.

He starts gathering the scattered pages, stacking them neatly back into the box. Some papers are doodles — quick pencil sketches of rooftops, city skylines, birds. Some are old school essays, a few folded letters never sent.

Something flicks against his thigh. A small, thick card. He picks it up absently, ready to tuck it away—until his eyes land on the handwriting.

His name.

“For Dick” written in familiar, elegant cursive letters.

It’s an invitation. To a theater. The date is from years ago—2016. He flips it, heart thumping unevenly.

Hi Dick!! I know you’re busy but maybe you could come????????????Please. I got a solo part this time! I’d really like if you saw me play. It’s Saturday at 7pm. I saved a seat in the front row for you, just in case. :)

It’s signed simply: Y/N ❤

Dick’s stomach twists, a slow, sickening pull.

He doesn’t remember this.

He doesn’t remember any of this.

His fingers tremble as he gathers the rest of the papers. More invitations spill out — to gallery showings, poetry readings, little charity events. Some directed to him. Others to Bruce. Some marked for Cass, Steph, Tim.

Names written with hopeful, awkward loops. Names underlined, circled, doodled with little hearts or stars. All gathering dust in a forgotten box, untouched, unopened.

He can only vaguely remember you at galas, tucked behind the grand piano, fingers gliding across keys while the adults talked business. He remembers your drawings stuck to the fridge when they were younger, Bruce pinning them up absentmindedly like they were grocery lists. He remembers thinking you’d be an artist one day.

But he doesn’t remember these shows. These letters. These invitations.

And he missed them.

He missed you.

His throat closes around the guilt rising fast and sharp in his chest. He runs his thumb over the soft paper of the invitation, reading your bubbly handwriting again and again, as if somehow, maybe, he’ll remember being there.

Maybe, if he reads it enough, the memory will appear.

But it doesn’t.

The silence wraps tighter around him.

The box is still half-full. Beneath the papers, beneath the scribbled notes and dried-out pens, there’s a small stack of worn journals, their corners frayed from years of use.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s not fair to read them. But he’s already failed you in so many ways.

His fingers hover over the top one. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then pulls it into his lap and opens it. It feels like an invasion. It is an invasion. But the guilt is heavy. The ache to understand her, to know the sister he most knew once, roots itself deep.

The pages are filled with your handwriting — messy, cramped, sometimes smudged with faint water stains. He thinks it's not water.

The first page is a sketch—a rough, childish drawing of a girl in a cape, standing next to a tall figure with a sharp cowl and a billowing cape. The girl is grinning. The figure is not.

The words underneath: I’ll make you proud someday.

“Shit,” he breathes softly, staring at the faded paper.

“I made a new piece today. I wanted to show Dad but he’s busy. Always busy. It’s okay. Jay says that’s just how he is. But maybe next time…”

Dick’s stomach knots.

He flips further.

“I sent Dick that invitation today. I hope he comes. I’m nervous. It’s dumb, I know, but it matters to me.”

His vision blurs, breath catching.

The pages bleed with more.

Frustrations. Dreams. Lonely nights in the Manor while the others trained or patrolled. Quiet resentment tucked behind polite words. The slow, steady heartbreak of being overlooked — not hated, not ignored on purpose, just… forgotten.

“I think if I’m good enough, they’ll come.”

“I think if I save enough people, Father will see me. Not just the mask. Me.”

He flipped to another entry, years later.

“They forgot again. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just try harder next time.”

His throat burned.

Another.

“It’s not that they don’t love me. I know they do. They just don’t see me.”

“Maybe I was never supposed to be seen.”

Dick grips the pages so tightly his knuckles go pale.

He reads until the words blur, until the guilt curdles into something heavier — shame, self-loathing, frustration.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually, he shoves the notebooks back into the box, his chest aching with every inhale.

His feet move on autopilot.

The halls blur past.

Bruce is in his study — where else would he be at midnight — reading files, probably preparing for tomorrow’s crusade, like always.

Dick doesn’t knock. He pushes the door open, the box balanced in his arms.

Bruce barely glances up. “Dick.”

He drops the box onto the desk with more force than necessary. Papers spill slightly, the old invitation landing near Bruce’s hand. Bruce’s eyes flick down. His brow furrows. He picks it up.

The silence stretches.

“What’s this?”

“Her room,” Dick snapped. “Her life. All the things we missed.”

Bruce’s hand hovered over the box for a second, as if touching it would burn him. “Y/N’s?”

Dick folds his arms, jaw tight. “You ever remember getting that?”

His father studies the invitation. The date. The handwriting. Something flickers across his face — not recognition. Regret, maybe.

“I… no,” Bruce admits quietly.

Dick’s teeth grind.

“Yeah. Me neither.” His hand slams against the side of the box.

“These? They’re all hers. Invitations. Shows. Letters. You know where I found them? Gathering dust in her old room. You know what else I found? Journals. Years of them.”

Dick’s voice cracks, low and bitter. “She wanted us there. All of us. You. Me. The others. You ever wonder why she left, Bruce? Why she never came back?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches.

“Don’t,” Dick warns, pointing a sharp finger. “Don’t give me some crap about her ‘needing space.’ I read it. I read every word. She wasn’t asking for space. I thought patrols, missions, saving the world — I thought it was enough. I didn’t realize I was walking right past her the whole time.”

“She made her choices.”

“She didn’t choose to be invisible to us.”

Bruce flinched at that, just a flicker, but Dick caught it.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

“She distanced herself,” Bruce said, softer now. “She left.”

“She left because we gave her nothing to stay for.”

The words cracked in the air like gunfire.

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.

Bruce’s gaze drifted to the box, to the memories packed haphazardly inside. His fingers traced the edge of the cardboard, lingering.

“I never meant—”

“I know,” Dick cut in, voice tight. “None of us did. That’s the problem.”

Damian heard everything.

It wasn’t hard, not in this house. Wayne Manor was old — creaking floors, thin walls, ventilation shafts that turned into hallways for sound. He wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. If they wanted privacy, they shouldn’t argue where the walls carried every word like a confession.

From his place crouched in the shadowed corner near the study entrance, Damian listened.

Dick’s voice came sharp and raw, slicing through the heavy air like a blade.

“…Your daughter. My sister. The one we’ve all been too damn busy to notice.”

Damian’s mouth flattened into a tight line.

Your daughter. My sister.

It shouldn’t sting. But it did.

Because no one ever included him in sentences like that. Not when it came to you.

His sister.

His daughter.

As if you weren’t his, too.

You are.

More than them.

You’re his only blood sibling. His only biological sister, even if the “half” in front of that always tasted bitter. It never mattered to him. Not the technicalities. Not the lineage arguments. Not the fact that you were gone before he ever got the chance to prove it.

You’re his sister.

His.

The others forget that. Dick forgets that. They all do.

He pressed further into the shadows, arms crossed, watching the tension unfold between Grayson and Father like a slow-burning fire.

He didn’t make a sound when the box hit the desk, when the contents scattered like broken memories across the wood. His eyes narrowed as papers slid free — letters, notebooks, old invitations — all marked with your name, your handwriting, your quiet, forgotten hope.

His jaw tightened.

So that’s what this was about.

You.

It always circles back to you, doesn’t it? Even when you’re not here. Especially when you’re not here. He’s thought about you more times than he’ll admit. Even when he pretends not to. Even when he wears his indifference like armor.

When he was younger, maybe ten, he’d wander the Manor searching for you.

Father told him you were away. Grayson said you were busy. Todd didn’t answer the question. Drake looked uncomfortable every time Damian asked. And Alfred?

Alfred always hesitated before replying.

“She’s finding her own way, Master Damian. Some paths are quieter than others.”

But your absence wasn’t quiet. It screamed.

You were a gap in the family photo. A missing piece at the table. A chair left cold at holidays Damian never liked anyway.

And the worst part?

You were the only sibling he wanted to know.

The others? They were fine. Useful, even.

But you?

You were supposed to be his.

His sister. His blood.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

Dick’s words echoed, and Damian’s throat constricted.

No, Father didn’t.

No, the others didn’t.

No, he didn’t.

But he has his reasons. Reasons the others wouldn’t understand.

You were already gone when he arrived. When the League sent him, when Talia made the arrangements, when Father reluctantly opened the doors of the Manor to his assassin-blooded, anger-wrapped child — you weren’t there.

They told him about you in passing. In clinical, detached terms.

“Y/N? She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Y/N? She’s in New York.”

“Y/N? She’s not part of this.”

But you were. You always were.

Even if they didn’t see it, even if you didn’t want to be, you’re a Wayne by blood. And his only sister.

The Huntress.

He knew the stories long before he saw the evidence. They spoke about you — the siblings, Father, even Alfred and all the fucking villains he has encountered — like you were a myth stitched into Gotham’s history.

The vigilante who walked away.

The Huntress with the flawless reputation.

The sister who vanished before Damian could measure himself against you.

But he did, anyway.

He watched the tapes. Studied the case files. Collected every fragment of your old life like it was a puzzle only he deserved to complete.

He mimicked your movements when no one watched him train. He sharpened his stance, just like yours. He mastered the same grappling techniques. He replicated the calculated grace you carried on rooftops — the footage never lied, and neither did the ache of admiration buried deep beneath his ribcage.

No one had to tell him you were better.

He knew.

You’re the only one he compares himself to. Not Drake. Not Todd. Not even Grayson, for all his accolades.

Only you.

His sister.

His blood.

It’s why he’s always hated how distant you’ve stayed. How effortlessly you carved your place outside the family — like you didn’t need them. Like you didn’t want him.

You never came back.

You never called.

You sent birthday letters, even to him. You once sent a present: a beautiful robin, carved with your hands, created by your heart, an exquisite sculpture he stills has in his room, right next to where he sleeps, and no one can touch it. No one.

He knows he shouldn’t resent you for it. You never knew him. You were gone before his feet ever touched Gotham soil. But logic rarely softened jealousy. And the hollow, possessive ache in his chest when they whispered about you never faded.

It burned brighter, seeing your name scrawled across those invitations.

It twisted cruelly, hearing Dick’s broken anger crack through the room.

Would you even recognize him as yours? As your brother? As your blood?

He doubted it.

Still— still, a flicker of want buried itself deep in his chest, like a thorn impossible to pull free.

You should be here, not in New York.

You should’ve stayed.

You should’ve seen him, known him, claimed him as yours before the others did.

Possession tasted ugly in his mouth. But it was all he had left of you.

He slipped away from the doorway before they noticed him. His steps were soundless, as always. The halls felt colder as he walked. The Manor’s walls whispered memories that weren’t his — childhood laughter, quiet piano keys, the soft scratch of pencil on paper — echoes of a sister he never got to grow up beside.

You were a ghost here.

But to him?

You were a benchmark. An obsession. A sister in absentia who still defined him in ways the others couldn’t.

In the privacy of his room, Damian closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed. His fingers twitched toward the small, hidden stash in the drawer — your old case files, outdated footage, grainy photos from years past.

A shrine built out of frustration and longing.

He flipped one of the photos over. It was you, half-hidden in shadow, your Huntress uniform sleek and sharp, posture flawless. Untouchable. Perfect.

He envied that version of you. Admired you. Resented you. Wanted you here.

It was unfair, how easily you left. How the others pretended they could move on. How you carved a life far from Gotham, far from him, with your paintings and music and words that never found him.

But it was more unfair how badly he still wanted to follow you.

His sister.

The only blood sibling they shared. Not that anyone ever reminded you of that. Not that you ever stayed to show him what that meant.

“She’s mine,” he muttered under his breath. “My sister. My blood.”

And he wasn’t letting you go again.

That's when he remembered Alfred's words. Your favourite brother had always been Jason. Closest to you: in age, in relationship, in language. That had made him burn before. But not . . . He saw clearly where he could get you again.

Who could.

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saffusthings · 2 months ago

Text

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-nine: blind spot

word count: 4.4k(?)

warnings: this chapter contains mentions of drugs, weaponry, and other illegal activities. reader discretion is advised.

twenty eight | twenty nine | thirty

He kept telling himself he was doing the right thing.

Give her space. Let her breathe, for fuck’s sake. Don’t make this about you.

But it was a joke, really. Because no matter how many times he told himself to back off, Lando couldn’t stop wondering what she was doing, how she was feeling, whether she’d eaten something that could actually be considered food. Whether she’d eaten the bread still warm from the bakery or left it to go stale on the table. Whether she cried when she was alone. Whether she cried at all.

He told himself to grow up. This wasn’t some teenage crush. He had blood on his ledger, weight on his name. He ran half the city’s undercurrent from behind the veil, stitched the streets together with money and fear and brute control.

So he acted like it.

Thursday came bitter and sharp, all wind slicing through his coat as he ducked down an alley off La Rousse and into the backroom of an old tailor’s shop – a legitimate front. It was run by an elderly man named Niki who had been running the business since back in the early 1980’s, long before Monaco ever gained their nefarious Reaper.

Lando just happened to be a loyal business partner of his – a humble young man who paid a generous amount in exchange for exclusive access to the basement of the old property. Niki had the added bonus of being a man who knew how to mind his own business.

Lando liked that in a partner.

The real business was three floors beneath—cold, concrete, and buzzing with quiet tension. His people were already gathered around the long steel table: Max Fewtrell leaning back in a chair, Logan with his arms folded, Carlos hunched over some schematics.

“News?” Lando asked, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto the rack behind him.

Carlos looked up, tapping the paper with his knuckles. “Got movement near Mile End. New shipment of knockoff tech—headsets, tablets, black market shit. I say we intercept and flip it.”

Lando nodded. “Do it quiet. No fireworks. I don’t want more noise than necessary this week.”

That’s when Verstappen stepped up to inform him that the warehouse on the docks had been hit. Two of Lando’s runners had gotten picked up and one of them was singing like a songbird. To make matters worse, their local books weren’t clean— for that matter, nothing was clean— but it meant that some fool had tried to skim off the gambling profits again.

Lando stood at the edge of the table, leaning forward on his fists as he surveyed the projected losses and the photograph evidence. With the way his sleeves were rolled up and his fists were clenched, Logan had to approach him, cutting off his train of thought.

“Mate, you have to take a breath, you're going to kill someone and then paperwork becomes my problem.”

“...Mate?”

“Boss. I meant boss. It’s, uh, a different way of pronouncing it. Yeah! Uh, French. Very French.”

The glare Lando shot him was so potent and so familiar that Logan didn’t need a language to understand it.

Shut up, Spin.

Logan sighed.

Why is it always me?

By noon, his phone buzzed with a familiar unknown number. There was no contact name, but the area code was French, and Lando was smart enough to know who would be so bold as to call him again.

Gasly.

The French always were so full of themselves.

It’d been a while since he’d heard from him. The Frenchman wasn’t one to just call up without a reason. And Lando had a feeling this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat about old racing memories.

With a roll of his eyes, Lando finally answered the call, placing the call on speaker before leaning back in his chair.

“Gasly,” Lando greeted succinctly, tone unreadable.

“Ah, now you pick up, huh? I have been trying to get your attention for some time now, Mr. Norris,” There was a slight chuckle, then a shift to seriousness. “Lando,” came the smooth, almost cocky voice on the other end. “You are busy?”

“Always,” Lando replied, his tone flat. “What do you need?”

“We should meet.”

He paused. The warehouse around him stilled.

“Where?”

“Neutral ground. Tomorrow night. Hmm, Le Voile d'Or? Not one of your places. Bring one of your own. Just one.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lando said, his voice low and cold. “But don’t think for a second I’m gonna let you walk all over me, Gasly.”

Gasly laughed, as if the challenge didn’t faze him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The line went dead before Lando could respond.

Bastard.

That night, Lando was back at the head of the intimate table setup in the meeting room, the dark mahogany reflecting the warm light of the ornate overhead chandelier. He folded his sleeves casually, rolling them to his elbows, his knuckles still raw but healing. Logan, Carlos, and Max Fewtrell sat with him, a fresh set of printed diagrams spread across the table—half club schematics, half distribution routes.

“He’s been running the street scene uptown with those modified imports and the fancy kid drivers,” Daniel added, leaning back. “Why would he want to fold into our operation now?”

“Because we’ve got infrastructure,” Lando said. “He’s got speed and no discipline. We’ve got routes, clean-ups, and an intel network he couldn’t build in a decade.”

Max tilted his head. “You thinking we bring him in for delivery work? Or enforcement?”

“Neither.” Lando’s jaw tightened. “We make him a runner. Use Gasly and his Garage to move product across districts fast. Street races’ll double as cover. We don’t touch the actual racin’—we let him handle that circus.”

Daniel let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty ambitious.”

“It’s efficient,” Lando muttered. “We’ve lost two outer routes in the last month. We need speed without, like, needin’ to rebuild everythin’ from scratch.”

Lando leaned forward, resting his forearms against the edge of the table, rings tapping a dull rhythm on the steel. “He said his crew is fast, low-profile, and looking for more work. But I think he wants protection—someone to watch his back if things go south.”

Carlos frowned. “Could be good.”

“Could be bait,” Logan muttered.

Lando considered both. In this life, everything came with a price.

Trust, especially.

Still, he needed to keep moving. Staying still made him think too much—about her, about that night, about the blood on her hands and how small she’d looked on his bathroom floor, knees drawn to her chest, his name barely a whisper.

At least he could keep the rest of the world in order. That much, he could still control.

“He’s smart,” Max Fewtrell said, interrupting his thoughts, tracing a path from the docks through to the northern districts. “Gasly’s been running his racing ring lean. Tight crew. Fast drivers. They're ghosts, half’a the time.”

Carlos, leaning against the lockers, nodded in agreement. “They are a fast crew. Young. Aggressive, too. They know the roads better than most of our guys do. And the bikes they run with?” He let out a low whistle. “Custom-built, half of them. Perfect for the tight runs.”

“What, you trust ‘em?” Daniel half-laughed, skeptical.

“No,” Lando rolled his eyes, as if Daniel had asked some stupid, childish question. “But I don’t need to trust ‘em. I need him to know we could make each other very, very rich, ” he smiled smugly.

Logan looked up from the tablet. “Using his drivers as runners could cut our drop times in half…”

“And also draw heat,” Carlos pointed out. “They crash one car, we will lose the route and the product.”

Lando leaned back, eyes flicking over the blueprints again.

Logan folded his arms. “ I dunno… could be useful. If we want to up our speed game, y’know.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Or it’s a setup. C’mon, I thought I was our car guy!”

Carlos only laughed.

Lando cracked his knuckles. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll hear him out. He wants to meet at a neutral place, suggested Le Voile d'Or. I want two exits, working comms, and I want eyes on the building an hour before Max n’ I even step foot in it. Logan and Oscar will go tonight and set up early. Got it?”

He could feel his heart rate pick up, the adrenaline that always came with making deals like this. But at the same time, he couldn’t escape the thought that kept gnawing at him—he wasn’t doing this to move forward anymore. He was doing it to outrun what was closing in behind him.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, the shadow of the city growing darker behind him. Everything he was doing now was just a distraction. A way to ignore the fact that, no matter how many deals he made or how many punches he threw, it was never enough.

Lando gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time to think about that. Not now.

Gasly had his attention, and that was enough for tonight.

“Yuki!” Pierre barked, stepping over a tangle of brake lines. “The NSX is still sputtering in third—didn’t I tell you to fix that two days ago?”

Yuki, crouched under the hood with grease smudged across his cheek, didn’t flinch. “Yeah, you did. And I am, but maybe if Esteban didn’t screw with the ECU mapping behind my back—”

“That was an improvement,” Esteban waved off, leaning against the wall with a bottle of water and a smug tilt to his mouth. “Unlike your tuning, which sounds like a dying blender.”

Pierre groaned, pacing past the two. “If you two can go thirty fucking seconds without pissing on each other, maybe we would have a car ready before Lando and his crew show tomorrow.”

Tucked into a half-abandoned industrial lot on the outskirts of the city, the place didn’t look like much from the outside. But inside, rows of souped-up cars lined the walls, glittering under harsh fluorescent lights. Toolboxes clanged, beats thudded from an old speaker rigged in the corner, and the murmur of French, Japanese, and the occasional curse in English hung low in the air.

The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber hung heavy in the air, thick with adrenaline and sweat. Neon light spilled from under the cracked roll-up doors of Gasly’s Garage, casting eerie pinks and greens over the collection of customized engines and half-assembled machines inside. It looked like chaos, but every screw, wire, and rev was calculated—Pierre wouldn’t allow otherwise.

This was Gasly’s world. And tonight, he was not fucking around.

“We need to look tight,” Pierre said sharply, pacing between two low-slung Hondas with custom body kits and matte finishes. “Like… we belong in that league, same as him.”

Yuki, now crouched under the open hood of a deep purple Acura NSX, didn’t even look up. “We do belong in the same league. You just want to look prettier.”

“Prettier gets us in the room,” Pierre snapped. “The rest comes after.”

From the far side of the garage, a socket wrench clattered to the floor. Esteban straightened up, rubbing his grease-stained hands on an already filthy rag.

“I thought the whole point of us was not needing his approval,” he said, too loud on purpose. “But sure. Let us beg for Norris’s scraps. I’m sure he’ll be flattered.”

Pierre’s jaw flexed. “It’s not begging. It is business.”

Esteban gave him a look. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, mon frère.”

Yuki rolled his eyes, muttering something in Japanese that probably wasn’t flattering.

“Putain,” Pierre swore under his breath, rubbing the side of his face. “Where the fuck is Jack? Tell me the rookie isn’t late. Again.”

“He’s not late,” came Yuki’s voice, straightening up to take a step back from the hood and check his work. He was still admiring his handiwork when he plainly told Pierre, “You are just anxious.”

Pierre shot him a look. Yuki didn’t flinch, just wiped his hands on a rag and dropped the hood with a satisfying thunk, before coming to stand beside Pierre.

“I’m not anxious,” Pierre said, voice low but clipped. “I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

“You are pacing like my grandmother used to before Sunday Mass,” Yuki deadpanned.

“Your grandmother also used to smuggle hash through airport security in her rosary beads,” Esteban muttered from the side, leaned against a stack of tires with a lazy smirk. “Ah, I know! Maybe she should be running this crew instead.”

Pierre turned his head sharply. “Say that again, Ocon. I dare you.”

Esteban lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I am just saying. If Lando Norris is coming all the way down from his big castle to check us out, maybe he’s expecting more than… this shit.”

Pierre stepped toward him. Yuki, with the patience of someone who’d seen this a hundred times before, simply pulled out his vape and took a long drag.

“You think you could run this place better?” Pierre asked tightly, jaw set. “Sois mon putain d'invité.”

“Je ne veux pas de ton travail, mon pote. I just want to survive the night without you starting a pissing contest in front of a guy who could bankroll half the East District.”

“Guys,” Yuki interrupted. “Maybe focus up? If we screw this up, we lose our only shot at this.”

The hangar doors creaked open with a mechanical groan before Pierre could respond. Jack Doohan rolled in then, stepping out with a backpack slung over one shoulder, hair damp like he’d just showered in a gas station sink. His car was flashy, over-tuned, too much chrome.

“You’re late,” Pierre snapped.

“Sorry,” Jack offered with a crooked smile, dropping the bag with a thud. “Cops shut down the shortcut. Had to take the long way ‘round.”

Pierre just glared.

Jack raised both hands. “Hey, I’m here now. What’d I miss?”

Yuki stood up, wiping car grease off his hands. “Everything important. But mostly Pierre yelling.”

Pierre shot him a warning look, cutting them off. “We’re here to make this look good. Lando Norris isn’t just some suit with a penchant for fast cars. He’s a calculated bastard. He’ll smell desperation from a mile away, so get your heads on straight.”

A beat of silence passed. The only sound was the low hum of the cars still cooling and the faint beat of music shifting to something darker.

At the back of the garage, Jack stood quietly, knuckles skinned from a rushed brake swap, eyes wide as he tried to absorb everything. This was his third week with Gasly’s crew, and it felt like a masterclass in organized madness. Pierre didn’t trust easily, but Jack had shown he wasn’t just another rich kid with a turbo’d Civic and something to prove. He listened. He learned. And most importantly, he earned his bruises.

“Oi,” Pierre called to him. “Check the tire pressure on the GTR. If we’re gonna show Lando we can move fast, we need to look like we live at 300 kph.”

Jack nodded immediately, wiping his hands on his jeans before jogging over to the corner.

The Garage was more than just their base—it was sacred ground. A Frankenstein’s lab of torque and tension. The walls were lined with old race trophies and Polaroids: half the people in them long gone, half still hanging on by blood, rivalry, or debt.

“You have got two hours,” he said instead. “We meet Lando and his guy at midnight sharp, comprendre?”

Esteban crossed his arms. “And what do we do when Lando starts asking questions we can’t answer? You think he is just going to just hand over his distribution lines because we brought him pretty toys?”

“No,” Pierre said. “I think he’ll listen if we show him we’ve got speed, discipline, and something he doesn’t. He knows this city better than anyone — but we know the streets. Every alley, every cop rotation, every crew too young or too desperate to turn legit. That’s what we offer.”

Jack looked around, cracking his knuckles. “You, uh, think they’ll bring Spin?”

Yuki raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think so. Lando doesn’t let anyone talk for him.”

“Except the Fewtrell boy,” Pierre muttered. “That’s his second, from what I hear.”

Esteban snorted. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Yuki closed the RX-7’s hood with a clang. “Why are we even trying so hard with this guy? You know he doesn’t play well with others.”

Pierre shot him a look. “Because Lando Norris doesn’t just run a syndicate—he is the syndicate. We get this deal, we stop bleeding cash on side bets and finally start –how they say– playing in the big leagues.”

“And if he says no?” Esteban asked, too casually.

“Then we make him say yes.” Pierre’s voice was calm, too calm.

Yuki exhaled, long and low. “You always say that before something explodes.”

“That’s because something always does,” Pierre grinned, flashing gold where his canine used to be. “Now get the hell to work. Tomorrow’s not just a meeting. It’s our audition.”

With that, Pierre was already walking toward his own car — a sleek silver Nissan GT-R with a cobalt blue underglow, hood up, engine gutted and humming as his crew fine-tuned every detail. He stood there for a moment, one hand resting on the roof.

This had to go right.

Because Gasly’s Garage wasn’t just a bunch of kids racing for pink slips anymore – not since the money started moving, not since the bets turned serious. Not since the first time someone crashed, and the body disappeared before sunrise.

They were in it now. And Lando Norris — the Reaper himself — was the next step.

So yeah, they’d play nice.

For now.

But only because they planned to run this city one day.

And when they did?

They’d remember exactly who looked down on them.

The chosen meeting, an unconstructed club called Le Voile d'Or was nothing more than a skeleton — steel beams, concrete floors, and open air where the ceiling should’ve been. No neon signs, no thumping bassline. Just construction tape fluttering in the breeze and the sound of sawdust spreading about. Lando liked it that way. No distractions. No corners to hide in.

The meet was set for midnight.

He arrived at 11:43, naturally. Max was already pacing near the car, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“They’re not here yet,” Max muttered, eyes scanning the lot. “You sure this isn’t a trap?”

“It’s always a trap,” Lando said evenly, pulling off his gloves as he stepped onto the gravel. “S’why we lay ours first.”

Oscar was already in position. Rooftop a block out, four floors up, a clean sightline, silencer on. One text and he could stop a heartbeat mid-sentence.

Logan had swept the perimeter earlier — camera blind spots mapped, back exits sealed, with Daniel and Verstappen posted by the service stairs. With Carlos positioned near the front entrance, nothing got in or out without them knowing.

Still, Lando’s eyes never stopped moving. Even in this hollow, half-built ruin, he was all edges. Sharp jaw, sharper gaze. His coat moved like a shadow when he walked, his boots steady and deliberate. You could tell just by looking at him: he wasn’t here to negotiate unless he wanted to.

11:56.

The hum of tuned engines echoed off the walls before the headlights appeared — three cars, low and fast, cutting through the dark. One was black with a burnt-pink stripe. The other, a silver Nissan, purred like a threat.

Gasly stepped out first. He didn’t hurry – he didn’t have to. He had that swagger particular to people who knew they were dangerous in ways others hadn’t even figured out yet. Yuki emerged just behind him — shorter, tenser, but clearly not a sidekick. Not with the way he scanned the site like he was already calculating escape routes.

Pierre approached with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, giving the Brit a once over. “Is that a gun? Or you are just happy to see me?”

Lando raised a brow. “Only as happy as you are,” he shot back, pointing his gaze to the handgun tucked into the band of Pierre’s baggy jeans.

Pierre chuckled. “Ah, touché.”

Max stayed silent behind Lando, eyes locked on Yuki, who looked like he might pull a knife just for fun. He made a point to stretch, the lifting of his jacket enough to show off the gun tucked in his own pocket, even if he couldn’t spot one on Pierre’s second. Tension crackled beneath the false politeness — a quiet understanding that everyone here had killed someone, directly or not.

Still, they went through the motions.

“Gasly,” Lando greeted.

“Norris.”

They shook hands — cool, quick, firm. No warmth.

“I hear you’re looking to expand,” Pierre said, tone smooth. “And I hear you’ve had trouble keeping up with demand lately.”

Lando didn’t react. “You offering t’help or just here to gloat?”

Pierre smiled. “Help, of course. I’ve got roads you don’t. Drivers you haven’t met. Eyes in places your boys would never pass unnoticed. You’re good at staying clean. I’m better at staying untraceable.”

Max Fewtrell looked over at Lando, unimpressed. Lando reflected that same look back to Gasly.

“Did you call me here just to make y’self feel nice, or do you actually have something f’me?

Gasly chuckled. “I have been thinking. You know how we used to roll together, back in the day? The racing, the high stakes? I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Lando unbuttoned the front of his suit, leaning against a makeshift table as he stared up at the Frenchman with a look that told to get on with it quickly. Lando Norris didn’t take kindly to have his time wasted, especially by posh wannabes looking to be somebodys.

“Go on.”

“I’ve got a network, a big one – street racers, quiter routes, plenty of guys who know not to play by the rules.” He glanced over at Yuki, who nodded, before he continued with his pitch. “We’ve got the runners, the cars, the cash flow, but we’re looking for someone who can push things, make it worth the risk. And you… well, you’ve got a reputation.”

Pierre had slowly been making his way closer to where the two Reaper boys were standing, and it was making Max antsy. Gasly saw Max’s hand twitch for his handgun and laughed, waving him off. “We are old friends here, non? No need for such things.”

Within moments, Lando’s mind clicked over the options. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d been looking for: leverage, power, control. A street racing ring under his influence meant more money, more influence, more control of the territories he was still trying to solidify. Gasly could help him gain an edge over rival crews who were too weak to understand how to play the long game.

“I’m… listening,” Lando muttered carefully.

“There’s potential in this for both of us, Lando. We can talk the bigger numbers when you agree. But you and I, we’ve always worked well together. Let us make something bigger than just a few races, hmm? Let us make it profitable for both of us.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. He could hear the pitch—Gasly was selling the idea of partnership, but he was also a businessman. If Lando played his cards right, this could open doors for all sorts of opportunities. But he had to be careful. Gasly was clever, slippery. And Lando wasn’t sure he trusted the guy enough to dive in without a second thought.

“And in return? Somehow I get the feelin’ you’re not doin’ this out of the goodness of you heart,” Max asked.

“Product. Routes. A seat at the table. Not the whole table — I know who I’m talking to.” Pierre tilted his head, smiling. He took a step closer, his voice lowering. “But… perhaps a slice.”

Yuki stepped forward, holding out a tablet with a map — color-coded, clean, and too detailed for Lando’s liking. Lando didn’t touch it. He simply nodded for Max to take it.

“I’ll have someone vet it,” he said.

“Of course,” Pierre replied. “And if you don’t like what you see?”

Lando met his gaze. “I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

The air held its breath for a moment.

Then Pierre smiled again. “I always like a man who’s polite when he threatens me.”

“Oh no, I’m not threatening,” Lando said, his smile sickly sweet. “Yet.”

Pierre laughed. Yuki didn’t, his eyes flitting between the two Brit’s momentarily.

One mistake, and it could all fall apart.

They talked numbers next — shipments, timing, how many people were on Pierre’s crew, what kind of muscle they had, whether they had clean fronts or needed cover. Pierre answered everything easily, like he’d been rehearsing for this moment.

Lando noticed it, clocked it, but didn’t call it out.

Pierre’s boys had made their pitch, and Lando—cool, unreadable, two steps ahead as always—had picked it apart and rebuilt it in his favor. On paper, they’d be allies. In reality, Gasly’s Garage would be working under him without realizing it. Lando had danced circles around sharper men. Pierre might’ve been slick, but Lando was surgical.

He slid his hands into his coat pockets, posture relaxed. Beside him, Max gave the faintest nod, as if to say we’ve got this. Across the concrete skeleton of the unfinished club, Pierre was still talking—something about logistics, runners, trust but Lando had mostly stopped listening by then.

They’d already won. His work here was done.

But he let Pierre talk anyway, because letting a man believe he’s in control is often the final stroke in tightening the noose.

By the time they finished, the night had shifted — the air less hostile, the power still clear but… tentative. Like everyone had shown their cards, but kept a few aces tucked into their sleeves.

Yuki appeared more closed off, standing more like a protective Doberman by Pierre’s side, while it was Pierre who approached so he and Lando could shake on it..

“Looking forward to working with you, Lando.”

“We’ll see,” Lando said. His designer shoe clacked against the concrete underneath as he too took a step closer, and then—

“Lando—”

Two clicks sounded before Oscar’s voice crackled to life in his ear – urgent and out of breath.

Why was he out of breath?

Lando barely had enough time to wonder when Max looked at him with a matching expression of realization.

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

a/n: yippee! a new chapter, and some new (familiar) faces! what do we think?

200 notes · View notes

a-mint-bear · 10 months ago

Text

Her Favorite Employee

Female Yandere x Female Reader

You're the personal assistant of your company's CEO. She's controlling, married to her job, and runs you ragged. But you're good at your job, and she loves to let you know how much she appreciates you.

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"What's on my schedule for this afternoon?"

A quick recap of what was on the docket for that day as you dropped off her coffee order. Soon she’d be in back to back meetings while you handled her calls and made the rounds to the various teams she oversaw. Same as most mornings.

“Wonderful. Make sure to have the Hillmore reports on my desk by three, and send a nice gift basket to Reynolds in Sales. His wife just had twins.”

You told her the reports would be done before her lunch with R&D, and you’d already sent a basket with her name on it two days ago which included a gift certificate to a local spa for the new mother.

“I knew you’d be on it.” She smiled into her coffee. “Much obliged, love.”

You nodded behind your tablet, trying not to be obvious about your lack of eye contact. It was torture when she called you that.

It was a lot, working under her. But at the same time, it was oddly… fulfilling. She gave you so many responsibilities and trusted, more expected, you to come through. Every time.

Not even six months ago you'd been just another employee. It was a decent job; Good pay and benefits, and the work was easy enough, the hours sucked sometimes but it wasn't like you had a rich social life it was cutting into.

You didn’t make any friends in the office, you weren’t sure any of your coworkers even knew your name. To them, you were just “that one girl who refills the paper in the copier”. Because someone has to, and you work with a bunch of animals who think that the paper just magically replenishes itself. Now you were “The Boss’ secretary”, that was at least more respectable? Maybe?

But before you were her assistant, you were just her “favorite employee”. And that was more trouble than it was worth.

She didn’t care much for being called by her surname like most of the superiors in the company, but no one was brave enough to call her by her given name. So most in the company just called her Boss or Miss. And she liked it that way. You were pretty sure she just liked how intimidating it made her seem.

She was always around. At first, you thought it might've been because she was your boss. She was probably just trying to see if you were any good at your job, maybe looking for a reason to fire you if she noticed anything off. But ever since you were hired, it just kept happening. Your first days in the office quickly turned into weeks and she was still circling you for seemingly no reason.

You could excuse it to yourself, maybe she was the micromanaging type. But her attention always seemed to be on you, almost exclusively, more than anyone else in the office. And it was… intimidating. For a couple of reasons.

She seemed to love… picking on you, if you could call it that. Any extra projects she needed done? You were her first choice. Fixing the new guy's botched paperwork before a big deadline? You were on it, of course. Overtime? Yup, you. It would be more annoying if you weren't getting paid really well. But you always got it all done, ahead of schedule, without any complaints.

And if she wasn't being oddly petty, she was being… oddly flirty.

Sitting on the edge of her desk when she talked quarterly reports over with you. Leaning a little too close when she took something off your desk. Her fingers brushed yours when you handed her things. A bump to your arm with hers here, a touch to your shoulder there… Every time you wondered if you were just imagining things, it happened again. She never did anything overtly inappropriate or pushed past any sign you were uncomfortable, but the truth was… you weren’t. It was a bit much to have this beautiful woman pay so much attention to you, but you weren’t going to lie, it wasn’t… the worst thing in the world.

It contrasted hard with her usual put-together image, prim and proper and out of reach from the mere mortals in the office. But as far as you’d noticed, she didn’t act this way in front of anyone else in the office. And you didn’t know what to do with that information.

You weren’t sure if any of it was on purpose, or if she was just flirtatious by nature. It was always hard to tell with women, as a woman. Was she into you? Was she even attracted to women?? Or did she get her jollies by flustering the office loner?

She stayed just as late as you most nights, if not longer. And checked up on you. And chatted with you when she had a minute. You just didn't get why. You weren't anyone special. And she was so…

She was gorgeous, always so well put-together and stunning. You'd never met a woman who was so beautiful it made you nervous, like a dumb teenager. But it couldn't outweigh how much she got on your nerves with how she was always in your business, so the conflicting emotions just made for long, exhausting workdays.

If she knew you were annoyed with her, she never let it show. But it wasn't long before you realized just why she'd been watching you so closely.

One day, all the creeping around and odd attention she was paying you started to make sense. The Boss Lady called you into a meeting with herself and the head of H.R. and just…

Offered you a promotion. Just like that.

"I've been really impressed by your work ethic.” She was being so poised and professional, every word out of her mouth sounded so assured, even though you were very much a deer in the headlights at the moment. “I need someone with a work/life balance that matches my own and can work with my schedule to be my personal Executive Assistant. Your hours would increase, but there will be a significant pay raise and company benefits.”

And boy, what a significant pay raise it was. You'd have to be a complete idiot to turn it down. It meant more responsibilities in the company and you'd be expected to dress up a bit more for appearance's sake, but a few suit jackets and skirts with nice dress shoes would be more in your price range now. It would mean spending A LOT more time with her though, and you weren't sure if your weak heart could take the damn near constant presence of this woman.

But maybe, SOMEHOW, it really was all in your head. Maybe the proximity to her while she was vetting you for the position just had you all mixed up?

Maybe the money was making you too eager to accept, but accept you did.

And it was normal, or as normal as things could be around that place, at least for a little while.

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You were scheduling some meetings for her and logging them in her calendar when another co-worker knocked on your office door.

“Oh hey, do you have a minute?”

You recognized them… You didn’t remember their full name but everyone called them Jay.

They started a few months after you did, and they seemed nice enough. Right now they looked a little out of sorts, which was unusual. They were usually the cool, flirty, sporty type who was good friends with everyone, not an awkward bone in their body. The two of you weren’t friends or anything, but there was no bad blood between the two of you.

You asked them what was up, and it took them a minute before finally spitting it out.

“Okay, so… totally tell me to screw off if I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree here.” It was kind of funny seeing them so nervous. “Would you wanna… go to dinner tomorrow?”

Without thinking, you pulled up your planner, asking if there’d been an email you’d missed about some team-building thing. But they just laughed.

“No, I meant… Just you and me.”

You froze, wondering if you had heard right. You cut to the chase, asking if they meant like a date?

“We don’t have to call it a date, if you don’t want to!” They held up their hands defensively, like you were someone they were worried about offending with this. You wondered how people saw you around here for them to be so nervous. Or maybe they just… really liked you that much. “But… yeah. I wanted to ask you out.”

You gave it a moment to sink in.

You weren’t automatically thinking of saying no. Did that mean you wanted to say yes? They were tall and attractive, in a “soft beanpole with a cute haircut” kind of way. They looked good in their usual button up with the rolled-up sleeves, and pulled the look off better than half the people around the office. The opposite of your very feminine boss. Looks-wise they were nothing alike, but both had the same confident, assertive air about them. Maybe that was appealing to you, and Jay was just as much your type as the Boss was.

You scolded yourself. Why were you thinking about her? Now?

At the end of the day, you didn’t see any reason to say no. It could be a nice time. This stupid not-a-crush you had on your boss was never going to go anywhere, so why not try and see someone who went out of their way to ask you out? If it didn’t work out, you would handle it like an adult.

Jay looked nervous that you’d been thinking for so long. You told them you had a pretty packed schedule, but if you could get a night off, it would be nice to have dinner with them tomorrow. You half-jokingly told them that if it went well, you’d slap the “date” label on it. Their cheeks went a bit red, but they were grinning ear to ear.

“Cool!” They laughed, a bit too loud before catching themself, playing it cool. “I mean uh… That sounds good. Let me know.”

They quickly left, muttering to themself to “keep it together”, probably thinking you couldn’t hear. It was kind of cute, in a weird way. Maybe they were shyer than you’d originally thought.

But now came the hard part. Getting a night off.

----------------------------------

“No, that won't do.” She didn’t even look up from her computer.

That’s all she had to say to your request. At first, you felt disappointed but you were ready to just turn around and leave, accepting it. But this was just... bothering you. You piped up, trying to reason with her. Her schedule was free tomorrow night and you were a week ahead on all the reports she’d put you in charge of. You hadn’t had a night off in a few weeks.

And you’d never complained. You’d even kind of liked the challenge, the effort you put into your work gave you purpose. Working as her personal assistant was the most rewarding job you’d ever had. And you even told her so.

So why?

She sighed, she seemed almost… annoyed?

“I heard some chatter in the hall this afternoon.” She just kept typing away. “Someone was asking about restaurant recommendations for a big date. They seemed excited about having finally asked out the CEO’s assistant. And that they were so surprised she’d said yes.”

So she knew? She knew you were asking for a night off for a date? What did that have to do with anything? But you kept quiet for the moment, wondering where she was going with this.

“Maybe it’s my fault.” she sighed, sitting back in her plush office chair. “I was too…generous. I wanted to make you feel comfortable working for me so I let you do what you wanted. I can admit to my mistakes.”

Generous? By working you like a dog day in and day out? By keeping you from doing something as simple as going on a date with someone who was interested in you?

You asked her why. Why was she so against you having a life? Why was she doing this?

You knew it was a bad-no, a super bad idea to be mouthing off to your boss. Possibly career-ending. But you’d done so much for her, every day for months on end and never letting her down no matter how difficult or grueling the task. And she couldn’t even give you this one night off?

You needed a reason.

“Oh, it’s quite simple.” She smiled her usual stunning smile. But you weren’t going to let it get to you this time. No ma’am. But as she got up from her desk, coming around to stand too damn close, you felt your resolve slipping.

“From the day you started working here, I knew I wanted to keep you by my side.”

As an employee, right?

. . .

Right??

“You were… quite the sight.” she sighed, a dreamy smile as she looked at you from beneath her long, dark lashes. “So put off by everyone. Always on your own. Uninterested. Unengaged. Unmotivated. At first I just wanted to frazzle you, make you lighten up a bit. You seemed so isolated, I figured a strong personality like mine would rub you the wrong way. But you had such an… interesting reaction.”

The both of you knew what she meant. The blushing, the nervous energy, all the times you tried so hard to act like you weren’t bothered by her attention. And most likely failed miserably.

“I saw how hard you worked. I could see your untapped potential. You were exactly what I needed. I knew I had to make you mine.”

You told her you didn’t understand. And maybe that was a lie. You couldn’t stop your thoughts from racing. She… wasn’t talking about work anymore, was she?

“I made you my assistant. You’re by my side, day in and day out. And… I thought that would be enough to satisfy this feeling. This... need. But it just wasn’t. And when I heard someone had taken an interest in you, I found myself quite…”

The intensity in her eyes felt so suffocating.

”Infuriated.”

You couldn't help but flinch when she laid her hands flat on your chest, just below your collar bone. Her touch burned itself into you, but you couldn’t take your eyes off hers. It felt like she’d devour you if you did.

“No one…” She grabbed you by your collar and yanked you closer, whispering in your ear. You hated the shiver it sent up your spine. “No one will ever take you away from me. Not another company. Not another department. And certainly not some little upstart from Sales.”

… She wasn’t talking about work anymore.

“If someone else took you from me... there would be no point in any of this. This job. It was so… stuffy and boring before you came along. Every day was just office politics and saying the right things to the right people.” She loosened her grip, straightening the collar on your suit jacket with an airy, light touch. “But you… You changed something. So I brought you to my side. And I’ve been watching, getting to know all about you. You play down your talents so you don’t draw any attention. But you can’t help yourself. What you want more than anything is for someone to say they appreciate you, that they need you.”

She had to know how this sounded, right? She almost sounded like…

“And I do.” She held your face in her hand, her thumb grazing your cheek so gently you could’ve convinced yourself her touch wasn’t real. “I need you, love. Without you, none of this means anything.”

Your breathing was shaky, you never imagined that this would- could ever happen in a million years.

She drew you closer, a soft gasp slipping out when you realized just how close. If anyone else popped in, it would be completely obvious what was going on. But you didn’t push her away. If anything, you wished she would just close the gap and take it out of your hands.

“So what do you say?” She whispered in your ear, the warmth of her breath making you feel weak. “Are you mine?”

As if you could say anything else.

Yes, Miss.

It was so soft a response that you weren’t sure you’d said it out loud until you saw her smile. A finger to your lips, she laughed. Not her usual teasing, mischievous laugh when she was trying to get a reaction out of you. It was sweet, delighted and charming.

She was so close, her breath on your lips, her lashes just barely brushed your cheek.

“And I'm yours, love.”

--------------------------------------

this one has been a long time coming, writing femme yanderes is difficult lol

this y/n ended up being a lady, and it didn't come into play much. but the hypercompetent assistant girl in love with her powerful boss lady is a wlw pairing near and dear to my heart.

Boss Lady's tentative full name is Lenora. she doesn't care for it, she goes by Nora. i originally gave her a last name to be called by in the story to make her seem more imposing, but it came off as awkward, like she has a name, but i didn't want her to be known by an unimportant surname

Jay started off as a lady, but i wrote her as more androgynous and it felt right to make them nb instead. it helped keep the reader's sexuality more ambiguous. i wanted to write them as wlw, but not strictly a lesbian. but she reads very much as a "useless lesbian" trope lol. Boss lady had to flirt with her for literal months on end before y/n caught on

i don't quite know how old Boss Lady is, i imagine her as late 30s, very early 40s, and there could be an age difference here, but it's not a necessary part of the story.

this Boss Lady COULD be the same Boss Lady as the one in Boss Lady has a House Spouse, sometime in the future of their relationship. maybe y/n gets burned out or quits for some reason and then becomes a domestic partner. But Boss Lady who obsesses over her employee was imagined as a separate Boss Lady originally. you can never have too many boss ladies.

and that header. i've said it before that editing the femme yandere headers is so awkward because the office lady ones just turn into their chests in tight button-downs lol

*whispers* would you guys find it weird if she called the reader "good girl"? 'cause i almost included it at the end there but thought it might be a bit much. i have a problem✌️

#female yandere #female yandere x y/n #female yandere x reader #yandere #yandere girl #femme yandere #yandere imagines #minty writing #girl yandere #female yandere x female reader #female reader #wlw yandere #yandere x darling #yandere female #Boss Lady #femme yandere x femme reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n

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starchild-unnamed · 29 days ago

Text

Medicine & Marshmallows

Summary: Law’s chronically ill partner hates managing their medications, so he decides to make it a little more enjoyable.

(Inspired by my own hatred of managing my meds)

Words: 694

Soft!Law x chronically ill!reader, established relationship, gn!reader, pure fluff, no use of y/n

cw: non-terminal chronic illness(unnamed), prescribed medication use

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It was quiet as you sat down with your least favorite box at one of the communal desks in the infirmary; the only sound to be heard was the steady hum of the Polar Tang. For a moment, you just sat there, staring into nothingness. You hated doing this— the premise, the necessity, the task itself, was all loathsome to you. Resigned, you lifted the lid and glared at the box’s contents as though they had personally insulted you.

After a few moments, your trance was broken by a tap at the door. There in the entryway stood Law, two steaming mugs in hand, and a paper bag in his mouth. “I come bearing gifts,” he mumbled around the parcel between his teeth.

You offered a halfhearted smile as he made his way across the room to put everything down on the side of the desk opposite the accursed box. “I hate doing this,” you sighed.

Sitting down at your side, Law looked at you sympathetically. “I know you do, but it’s a necessary evil. Hopefully my peace offerings help with that.” He gestured at the drinks and small bag, dragging them towards you. “This week is extra special, since we just stopped at that island,” he continued.

Wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic, you peered into the mug and laughed. “Went a little overboard on the marshmallows this time, huh babe?” Based on his generally stoic, no nonsense attitude, one may quickly assume that the Surgeon of Death exclusively drank black coffee. In truth, however, Trafalgar Law had an insatiable sweet tooth; when it was just the two of you, he generally opted for hot chocolate in your matching polar bear mugs.

Law looked up at you from where he was rummaging through the bag he had brought with him. “I know how much you despise doing this, so I added extra to make you feel better. And I picked these up from that bakery we saw yesterday.”

You felt a surge of affection for the man beside you as he pulled out two cinnamon rolls. “You didn’t have to do that, Law. Thank you.”

He smiled softly, in the way that he reserved exclusively for you. “I know how much you hate box day; I figured I could make it at least a bit more enjoyable.”

That’s what you had dubbed this dreaded weekly chore: “box day.” At the beginning of each week, you had to take out that accursed box and sort your countless medications into their daily compartments. The process was tedious and mind numbing, but you knew it was a necessary evil. Much to his credit, however, your partner did what he could to make it less unpleasant.

One by one, labeled bottles of multicolored capsules and tablets, each with a different purpose, were extracted from the box. With Law’s help, you made quick work of organizing the vast array of medications that kept you in working order, periodically taking sips from your warm beverage. Finally putting the box away, you gave Law’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you for helping. You make it so much easier.”

Law’s eyes were soft when they met yours. “Of course, love. I know it’s a lot, and that it can be overwhelming, but I want to make sure you’re healthy.”

“I know you do,” you replied; “and I love you all the more for it.”

The doctor pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “How about these cinnamon rolls as a reward for a job well done?”

“That sounds delightful.” Keeping up with your litany of medications may be unpleasant, but you would do it a thousand times over if it meant you were well enough to stay by Law’s side.

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#trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law fanfiction #trafalgar law fluff #one piece x reader #one piece fanfiction #one piece fluff #one piece #one piece fanfic #starchild writes

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w1w2 · 5 months ago

Text

A Contract of Silence

Part 1 | Next part

Giselle x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 6k

Synopsis: A young mute woman is drawn into the world of a powerful CEO through an unexpected proposition that could change her life and her family’s future forever.

Notes: I've been obsessed with When the Phone Rings lately, and it has been inspiring a little.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Y/N’s heart pounded as the elevator doors glided open to the executive floor of Uchinaga Couture. A soft chime signaled her arrival, and she stepped out hesitantly, her worn flats making barely a sound against the pristine marble floors. The space around her was intimidatingly sleek, high ceilings, gold-accented furniture, and white walls so spotless they practically glowed under the recessed lighting. Every inch of the space radiated power and exclusivity.

The air was cool and quiet, the only sounds were the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant clicking of keyboards from the rows of assistants stationed in glass-walled offices. It was the kind of silence that felt heavy, like it demanded perfection from anyone who dared to linger too long.

Y/N clutched her bag tightly against her chest, trying to steady her breathing. Her mind raced, replaying the cryptic message she’d received from Giselle Uchinaga’s assistant earlier that morning.

“Miss Uchinaga would like to see you in her office. Immediately.”

Why would Giselle Uchinaga, the CEO of one of the world’s most renowned fashion houses, a woman so influential she rarely made public appearances, want to meet with her? Y/N wasn’t even an intern yet.

Her fingers instinctively reached for her phone in her bag. She’d been rehearsing a polite introduction during the entire elevator ride, but now, standing here surrounded by the grandeur of Uchinaga Couture’s upper echelon, her words felt hollow. Would she even be able to speak at all in the presence of someone like Giselle?

The receptionist sitting behind a minimalist gold and glass desk barely glanced up from her screen. “Miss Uchinaga is waiting for you,” she said, her tone clipped and professional, as though this sort of summoning happened every day.

Y/N nodded. She smoothed the front of her blouse, realizing with dismay that it was slightly wrinkled from her hurried commute.

The receptionist gestured toward a pair of imposing glass doors at the far end of the hallway. They stood like gates to another world, one Y/N wasn’t sure she was ready to enter.

She hesitated, but the receptionist’s pointed look left no room for second guessing. Forcing her feet to move, Y/N approached the doors, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The office beyond the doors was even more magnificent than the hallway. Vast and bathed in natural light, it was dominated by floor to ceiling windows that offered an uninterrupted view of the city skyline. The desk at the center of the room was a masterpiece of sleek mahogany, polished to a mirror finish. Behind it sat Giselle Uchinaga herself.

Y/N had seen Giselle in magazines and online, always poised, with an untouchable elegance that made her seem more like a mythical figure than a real person. In person, that aura of control was even more pronounced.

Giselle didn’t immediately acknowledge her presence. She sat with her back straight, her silky black hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder as she studied the glowing screen of her tablet. A fountain pen rested delicately between her fingers, tapping soundlessly against the desk. Her tailored navy suit accentuated her sharp features, and even seated, her posture exuded authority.

“Miss Y/N,” Giselle said finally, without looking up. Her voice was smooth and controlled, with a faint edge of disinterest. “Have a seat.”

Y/N obeyed quickly, lowering herself onto the leather chair in front of the desk. It was so soft and luxurious she worried for a moment that she might sink into it entirely. She folded her hands in her lap, trying not to fidget as she waited.

Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes. Giselle remained focused on her tablet, her fingers scrolling through unseen files with practiced precision.

Y/N used the opportunity to glance around the room. The walls were lined with black shelves holding a curated collection of awards, framed magazine covers, and bound portfolios. Every object seemed to scream success, as if Giselle’s achievements had been distilled into physical form.

When Giselle finally looked up, Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. The CEO’s almond-shaped eyes were sharp and assessing, like she was dissecting Y/N with a single glance.

For a moment, Y/N felt like an open book under that gaze, every secret and insecurity laid bare. The weight of it was suffocating, but she forced herself to meet Giselle’s eyes, refusing to shrink under the scrutiny.

“I assume you’re wondering why I called you here,” Giselle said, leaning back in her chair. Her tone was calm but carried the faintest hint of impatience.

Y/N nodded quickly.

Giselle’s perfectly manicured hand gestured toward a sleek black folder resting on the desk, though she didn’t open it yet. “I’ve reviewed your file, Miss Y/N. You have an impressive work ethic. Resourceful. Determined. Someone who doesn’t back down when faced with challenges.”

Y/N blinked, unsure whether Giselle was complimenting her or simply stating facts. Her file? She’d almost forgotten she’d even applied for a position as an assistant in the accounting department months ago, an opportunity that had seemed impossible even then.

“I have an opportunity for you,” Giselle said, her voice deliberate, as though testing Y/N’s reaction. “But before I explain further, I need to know one thing. How far are you willing to go to help your family?”

The question hit like a thunderclap. Y/N’s lips parted instinctively, but no sound followed. Her breath caught in her chest, her pulse roaring in her ears as her thoughts spiraled.

Why was Giselle asking something so personal? How much did she know about Y/N’s situation?

Giselle’s gaze didn’t waver, her expression unrelenting. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension.

Y/N’s fingers trembled slightly as they curled into her lap. She wanted to ask what Giselle meant, to demand clarification, but the words never came. They never could. Instead, she lifted her head, her eyes locking onto Giselle’s with a quiet intensity.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she inhaled slowly, trying to project steadiness. Her gaze was resolute, though her chest tightened with fear, she refused to look away. If Giselle wanted to test her resolve, she would show it, even if only through the unwavering determination in her expression.

For a fleeting moment, something flickered in Giselle’s eyes, curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of approval, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Giselle didn’t wait for a response. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing the edges of the black folder on her desk.

“Your father left you and your family in an unfortunate position,” she said, her tone clinical, devoid of any trace of empathy. “The debts he accrued are substantial, and your current situation offers little opportunity to escape them. Correct?”

Y/N flinched at the bluntness, her chest tightening as though someone had reached in and exposed every hidden part of her life. She hesitated, her fingers twitching toward the phone in her lap. Finally, she picked it up, her movements deliberate, and began typing.

“Yes.”

She held up the screen for Giselle to see. The stark simplicity of the word felt both shameful and raw.

Giselle’s gaze flicked to the phone, her expression remaining unreadable. She gave the faintest nod of acknowledgment before continuing.

“I’m offering you a way out,” Giselle said, folding her hands neatly on the desk. “But it requires your cooperation and your discretion.”

Y/N blinked, her curiosity piqued despite the knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She typed quickly, her fingers trembling slightly.

“What kind of cooperation?”

The corner of Giselle’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “I need a fiancée.”

Y/N froze, her eyes widening. For a moment, she was sure she’d misread the words that had just left Giselle’s mouth. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, uncertain what to say. Finally, she typed.

“A fiancée?”

“Yes,” Giselle said, her tone as even and detached as if she were discussing a routine business transaction. She leaned back in her chair, exuding an air of unshakable confidence. “My reputation has... complications. Certain people perceive me as cold, unapproachable. The board at Lueur, with whom I am negotiating a highly lucrative partnership, values the appearance of stability and warmth in their collaborators. I need to project that image.”

Y/N stared at her, stunned. Her fingers moved instinctively, typing out the only question that made sense.

“Why me?”

“You,” Giselle said, her sharp gaze locking onto Y/N’s, “are the perfect candidate. Young, vibrant, and unknown to the media.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted as she read Giselle’s words. Her mind raced, struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. She typed slowly this time, her hands shaking.

“I don’t understand. I’m just an applicant. Why would you choose me?”

Giselle’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, she appeared to weigh her response, then answered with calm certainty. “I’ve done my research. Your background is compelling, your work history suggests you’re resourceful and adaptable and most importantly, you’re desperate.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her chest tightening at the final word. She lowered her phone slightly, breaking eye contact for the first time.

“You have no other options, Miss Y/N,” Giselle said, her voice firm but not unkind. “This arrangement would benefit both of us. You’ll help me secure the partnership with Lueur, and in return, I will pay you enough to clear your family’s debts entirely and provide a stable future for yourself and your family.”

Y/N hesitated, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Humiliation, anger, and a flicker of reluctant hope. She stared at her phone, her vision blurring slightly. With trembling fingers, she typed.

“And if I say no?”

Giselle’s expression didn’t waver. “Then you walk out of this office, and we go our separate ways. But consider this carefully, opportunities like this are rare, and for someone in your position, it could mean the difference between struggling for decades or starting over.”

Y/N stared at the words on her screen, her heart pounding. Giselle’s words weren’t a threat, they were a calculated statement of fact.

This wasn’t a choice. Not really.

Giselle leaned back in her chair, her sharp gaze never leaving Y/N, and slid the black folder across the desk with a single, precise motion. The faint sound of the leather cover gliding against the polished wood echoed in the otherwise silent room.

Y/N hesitated, her fingers hovering over the edge of the folder. Slowly, she reached out and pulled it closer, her heart pounding as she flipped it open.

Inside, the contract was laid out in meticulous detail. The dense paragraphs of legal jargon were daunting, and Y/N’s eyes flitted over the page, struggling to focus. Certain phrases stood out like beacons, each one hitting her like a punch to the chest.

“Exclusive agreement.”“Media appearances required.”“Strict confidentiality.”

Her throat tightened as the magnitude of the arrangement settled over her like a heavy fog. This wasn’t just a deal, it was a meticulously crafted performance, with no room for mistakes.

“This isn’t a charity, Miss Y/N,” Giselle’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. Her tone was firm, but there was a hint of expectation, as if she were testing how Y/N would respond.

Y/N glanced up, her fingers still clutching the edges of the folder. Her mind swirled with questions, fears, and doubts, but she forced herself to focus. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone and typed quickly before turning the screen toward Giselle.

“What exactly do you expect from me?”

Giselle’s gaze flicked to the screen, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk curved her lips. “Professionalism,” she said. “You will follow my instructions, attend events as required, and present yourself as a devoted partner. In public, we will be inseparable. In private, however, we will remain strictly separate.”

Y/N’s fingers flew across the screen again, her anxiety spilling into her typed words.

“And if I mess up?”

The question hung in the air, and Y/N watched as Giselle’s expression hardened slightly. The CEO leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her fingers steepled in front of her.

“Then the deal is off,” Giselle said, her voice cold and unwavering. “And you’re on your own.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted at the bluntness of the ultimatum. She tightened her grip on her phone, her chest tightening as the enormity of the situation loomed over her. She quickly typed another message, her hands trembling slightly as she showed the screen to Giselle.

“You mean... everything ends? No payment?”

Giselle nodded once, her expression unchanging. “Exactly. This is a transaction, Miss Y/N, not a handout. If you fail to meet the expectations outlined in that contract, there will be no second chances.”

The weight of those words settled over Y/N like a lead blanket, heavy and suffocating. Her eyes dropped to the folder again, scanning the tightly packed lines of text that seemed to stretch endlessly.

She hesitated before typing another question, her fingers pressing against the screen more forcefully now.

“What happens if someone finds out this is fake?”

Giselle’s gaze sharpened, and for the first time, her calm exterior seemed to harden further. “They won’t,” she said simply, the steel in her voice leaving no room for doubt. “As long as you adhere to the terms of the agreement, no one will suspect a thing. I’ve accounted for every possible variable. Any leaks or suspicions will only arise from carelessness, yours, specifically.”

The words sent a chill through Y/N, but she refused to look away. Her fingers hovered over her phone as she considered her next move. Every logical part of her told her to walk away, that this was far too risky, far too overwhelming. But the memory of her family’s desperate situation, the crushing weight of her father’s debts, made her stay rooted in place.

She swallowed hard, then typed a final message.

“What happens if I succeed?”

Giselle’s expression softened, just slightly. “If you succeed, your debts are gone. You’ll have enough money to start over, far away from whatever struggles brought you here. And,” she added, her tone shifting to something almost imperceptibly lighter, “you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you helped secure one of the most important deals in this company’s history.”

Y/N read and reread the words on her screen, her chest tightening. The stakes were high, terrifyingly so, but so was the reward. She could picture her family, free from the weight of her father’s mistakes, finally able to move forward.

After what felt like an eternity, Y/N stared down at the open folder before her. The dense, unyielding text seemed to blur as the enormity of what she was about to do settled over her. Her hand hovered over the pen resting neatly beside the folder, trembling with hesitation.

Her thoughts raced. Signing this contract would bind her to a life she couldn’t fully comprehend, a world she wasn’t prepared for. But walking away wasn’t an option, not with her family depending on her.

Y/N picked up her phone and typed a message, her fingers moving slower than usual as doubt gnawed at her resolve. She turned the screen toward Giselle, who watched her with patient intensity.

“What if I change my mind later?”

Giselle’s sharp eyes flicked to the screen. For a moment, her expression softened, not with kindness, but with something close to understanding. “Then I suggest you don’t sign,” she said, her voice calm but resolute. “Once you commit, there’s no room for second guessing.”

Y/N swallowed hard, the answer hitting her like a stone. Giselle’s unyielding certainty was both intimidating and strangely reassuring. This was a woman who never faltered, who didn’t allow for failure.

Her hand tightened around the pen. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as she steadied herself. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the pen to the page and began to sign her name.

Each stroke of ink felt heavier than the last, like an invisible weight pressing against her hand. Her name, once complete, seemed foreign and final. This was it, the moment that changed everything.

When she finished, Y/N set the pen down carefully, the faint click of metal against wood echoing louder than it should have. She slid the folder back across the desk, taking one copy of the contract for herself and tucking it neatly into her bag, her eyes darting up to meet Giselle’s.

Giselle picked it up without a word, her fingers flipping through the pages with practiced efficiency. Her sharp gaze scanned the document, ensuring every detail was in place. Finally, she closed the folder and set it aside.

“Welcome to your new life, Miss Y/N,” Giselle said, extending her hand.

Y/N hesitated, staring at the outstretched hand. She’d expected this moment to feel more... transactional, but now that it was here, the reality of what she’d agreed to seemed overwhelming. Slowly, she reached out, her hand meeting Giselle’s.

Giselle’s grip was firm, her palm cool and steady. There was no warmth, no reassurance, just the unspoken promise of professionalism.

Releasing her hand, Giselle leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. As Y/N stood, clutching her phone tightly, Giselle’s voice stopped her just as she reached the door.

“Remember,” she said, her tone low but resolute, “this is business. Nothing more.”

Y/N froze for a heartbeat, then nodded.

The glass doors closed behind her with a soft click, sealing her into a world she wasn’t sure she could navigate. The quiet hum of the floor seemed louder now, the weight of her decision pressing down on her chest.

As she stepped into the elevator, her reflection stared back at her in the polished steel walls, unsure, but resolute.

This was her choice. There was no turning back now.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and after the short walk Y/N stepped out into the bustling street. The late afternoon sunlight stretched across the buildings, painting the city in hues of amber and gold. Pedestrians moved around her in a blur, business people rushing to catch cabs, couples strolling hand in hand, and tourists snapping pictures of the skyline.

But Y/N barely noticed any of it. Her thoughts weighed her down, each step feeling heavier than the last as she weaved through the crowd.

The weight of the signed contract in her bag felt almost tangible, like an anchor tethered to her future. Her grip tightened around the leather strap of her bag, so firm that her knuckles turned white. She had done it. She had agreed to step into a world she barely understood, tethering herself to a woman who felt as untouchable as the city’s towering skyscrapers.

Giselle’s words echoed in her mind, cool and precise, as if they had been carved into stone.

"Welcome to your new life."

Her new life. Was it really hers?

She felt a pang of uncertainty, the same pang that had risen in her chest as she’d signed her name on the dotted line. It hadn’t felt like liberation, it had felt like a pact with something she couldn’t quite define.

Y/N slowed her pace as she passed the entrance to a quiet park, the bustling noise of the city receding like a distant hum. The shade of a row of oak trees stretched across the grass, offering a temporary reprieve from the chaos of the world outside.

Her feet carried her to an empty bench near a fountain, its soft trickling water providing a soothing contrast to the relentless rhythm of her thoughts. She sank down slowly, her shoulders sagging under the invisible weight she carried. The smell of freshly cut grass filled the air, but it did nothing to lift the heaviness settling in her chest.

Y/N pulled her phone from her bag and stared at the blank screen. Her fingers hovered over the device, poised to type something into the notes app, but no words came. She didn’t know what to say, to herself, to the universe, to anyone.

The screen dimmed, and Y/N let the phone drop into her lap with a soft thud. She leaned back against the bench, her head tilting toward the sky. The golden light filtered through the leaves above, dappling her face with shadows and warmth, but it couldn’t reach the chill that gripped her heart.

Her breathing slowed, and with the stillness came the memories, unbidden and relentless, rising to the surface like ghosts she could no longer keep buried.

She was ten years old the last time she heard her father’s voice. It was a warm evening, much like this one, when she’d sat cross legged on the thick carpet of his study, her fingers trailing absently over the edges of a well worn storybook. The smell of his cologne, cedarwood and something faintly spicy, lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of the leather bound books that lined the shelves.

His desk, usually an organized chaos of papers and trinkets, was unusually cluttered that night. Contracts, ledgers, and letters spilled across the dark oak surface, the symbols of a crumbling empire he had worked so tirelessly to build.

Her father had always been her hero. His laughter had a way of filling every corner of the house, and his warmth made even the darkest days feel like they carried a glimmer of hope. But that night, something was different.

His usual smile was absent, replaced by a furrowed brow and a tightness in his jaw that Y/N didn’t fully understand but instinctively feared. His movements were hurried, his hands shaking slightly as he shuffled through the papers in front of him.

“Papa?” she had asked softly, her voice breaking the heavy silence.

He stilled for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath before he turned to her. His eyes, so often kind and full of life were clouded with something she couldn’t name. He crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt in front of her, his large hands gently gripping her small shoulders.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “I need you to listen carefully, okay?”

The seriousness in his tone made her heart race. She nodded, her gaze locked on his face.

“No matter what happens, no matter what you see, you have to stay quiet. Do you understand? Don’t make a sound.”

His words wrapped around her like a cage, cold and unyielding. She opened her mouth to ask why, but the look in his eyes stopped her. There was no time for questions, no room for explanations. He pulled her to her feet and led her to the far wall of the study, where a towering bookshelf stood filled with thick tomes and small mementos.

Before she could ask what he was doing, he pressed his hand against the side of the shelf, triggering a soft click. The bookshelf shifted slightly, revealing a narrow doorway. Beyond it was a small, dark room she had never known existed.

Her father knelt again, placing both hands on her shoulders this time. “Stay here, sweetheart,” he whispered. His voice wavered, just for a moment, before he steadied it. “Don’t come out until I tell you. And remember, no sound.”

The fear in his eyes mirrored the growing terror in her chest. She wanted to cling to him, to beg him to stay with her, but he gently pushed her into the hidden space before she could.

“Be brave, Y/N,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Then he closed the door, sealing her in darkness.

Y/N pressed her hands against the cool walls of the hidden room, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure it would give her away. Through a thin crack in the door, she could see her father return to his desk, his movements quick and tense. He sat down, his back straight as if bracing himself for something.

Minutes later, the front door burst open with a thunderous crash.

Y/N flinched, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Harsh voices filled the air, angry and unfamiliar. Men in dark suits stormed into the study, their faces obscured by the dim light.

She watched as her father rose to meet them, his posture firm despite the chaos that followed. The men surrounded him, their movements calculated and menacing.

“You know why we’re here,” one of them said, his voice cold and cutting.

Her father’s voice was calm but resolute, though Y/N couldn’t make out every word. She caught fragments “not fair,” “family,” “too far” but the argument was heated, the tension in the room palpable.

One of the men slammed his hand against the desk, making Y/N jump. Her father stood his ground, his expression unreadable.

The man’s voice rose, sharp and angry. “You should have kept your mouth shut.”

There was a flash of movement, something metallic glinting in the dim light.

Then came the deafening crack of a gunshot.

Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat as her father’s body crumpled to the floor. Time seemed to stop. The dark pool spreading beneath him was all she could see, staining the polished wood of the study.

Her heart felt like it would burst as she clamped her hands over her mouth, her small frame trembling violently. Tears streamed down her face, hot and endless, but she didn’t dare make a sound. Her father’s warning echoed in her mind like a mantra. Don’t make a sound. Don’t make a sound.

The men stood over his lifeless body for a moment before one of them spat something cruel under his breath. Then, as quickly as they had come, they were gone, their heavy footsteps retreating into silence.

When the house finally fell quiet, Y/N stayed frozen in the hidden room, too terrified to move. It felt like hours before she found the courage to push the door open.

The study was eerily still, the papers on her father’s desk fluttering softly in the breeze from an open window. She stumbled toward his body, her legs shaking so badly she nearly fell.

“Papa?” she whispered, her voice cracking. Her small hands reached out to him, shaking as they pressed against his arm. “Papa, wake up.”

But he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. The warmth she had always associated with him was gone, replaced by a cold, lifeless shell.

The weight of her grief was unbearable, suffocating her as she knelt beside him, sobbing silently. At that moment, something inside her broke.

From that day on, Y/N never spoke again.

The official story was that her father had taken his own life after his company went bankrupt. The newspapers were ruthless, painting him as a failure who had crumbled under the weight of his mistakes. The debts, they said, had been too much for him to bear.

The truth, however, was far darker. Y/N had tried to tell someone, anyone. In the days that followed the horrific night in the study, she had opened her mouth countless times, desperate to describe the men who had invaded their home, to explain how they had taken her father’s life.

But every time, the words got stuck.

Her throat would tighten painfully, and the memory of her father’s lifeless body would crash over her like a wave, pulling her under. The gunshot, the men’s cold voices, the dark pool of blood, it all came back too vividly, paralyzing her. No matter how much she wanted to scream the truth, her voice refused to cooperate.

At first, her mother didn’t seem to notice. She was too consumed by her own grief and the weight of what had been left behind. Lawyers had come and gone, each one bearing bad news. The company her father had built was gone, swallowed up by his debts, leaving nothing but bills they couldn’t pay and creditors demanding what was owed.

Y/N had tried to help, using the scraps of courage she had left to write down the truth in shaky handwriting. But when she’d handed the paper to her mother, her hands trembling, her mother had barely glanced at it.

“Not now, Y/N,” her mother had said softly, her voice heavy with exhaustion. She’d set the note aside and never brought it up again.

Y/N had crumpled the paper in her hands, the rejection stinging more than she expected.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N stopped trying to speak altogether. What was the point? Every attempt ended the same way, with her throat closing up, her heart pounding, and tears burning her eyes. The trauma sat in her chest like a stone, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak.

At school, teachers and classmates would ask her questions, their faces twisting with confusion when she wouldn’t respond.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” “Why won’t you talk?”

The questions only made it worse. She wanted to answer, wanted to explain, but her voice was gone. Instead, she would shake her head and look away, her cheeks burning with shame.

Her teachers contacted her mother, concerned about her silence. But her mother, overwhelmed with grief and the mounting debt, had little energy to address the issue. “She’s going through a lot right now,” her mother had said. “She’ll speak when she’s ready.”

But Y/N wasn’t sure she ever would.

Their once beautiful home, with its sprawling garden and cozy rooms, was sold within months of her father’s death. The furniture went next, piece by piece, until their lives were stripped down to the bare essentials.

They moved into a cramped apartment in a part of town Y/N had never visited before. The walls were thin, the pipes rattled when the water ran, and the single window in the living room overlooked an alleyway filled with dumpsters. It was a far cry from the life they’d known, but her mother said it was all they could afford.

Y/N had watched as the stress wore her mother down, the vibrant woman reduced to a shadow of herself. Lines of worry etched themselves into her face, and her shoulders seemed permanently hunched from the weight she carried.

Y/N hated seeing her mother like that. Hated the hopelessness that seemed to hang over their tiny apartment like a storm cloud.

It was then, at the age of ten, that Y/N made a promise to herself. She would do whatever it took to help her family.

For months, Y/N relied on gestures and written notes to communicate. She would scribble messages on scraps of paper or point to things when she needed something. It was clumsy and frustrating, and more often than not, people misunderstood her.

One day, during a particularly frustrating moment at school, her teacher handed her a flyer.

“Have you thought about learning sign language?” the teacher had asked gently, her voice free of judgment.

Y/N had stared at the flyer for a long moment before taking it. She wasn’t sure if it would work, but it was worth a try.

The next weekend, her mother took her to her first sign language class at a community center downtown. Y/N felt out of place at first, surrounded by people of all ages, each with their own reasons for learning. But as the instructor demonstrated simple signs and encouraged them to practice, something shifted.

First time in months, Y/N felt like she had a voice again.

She practiced obsessively, her fingers fumbling at first but growing more confident with time. She learned to sign her name, simple phrases, and eventually, full sentences. The fluid motions of her hands became second nature, and with every new sign she mastered, she felt a little piece of herself returning.

Sign language became her lifeline, a way to express herself without the fear that had stolen her voice. It wasn’t perfect, many people didn’t understand it, and she still relied on her phone or written notes in those cases, but it was hers.

As she grew older, Y/N poured herself into her studies. She took on part time jobs after school, working long hours at diners, grocery stores, and anywhere else that would hire her. Every penny she earned went toward the family’s expenses or into a savings jar she kept hidden under her bed.

But no matter how hard she worked, the debt loomed over them, a constant reminder of her father’s death and the men who had taken everything from them.

Y/N refused to let it break her. She had resolved, then and there, that she would claw her way out of the darkness, no matter what it took. For her mother, for her siblings, and for herself.

She just needed an opportunity.

Y/N stared down at her phone, the sleek black screen reflecting her tired eyes and the faint streaks of sunlight filtering through the trees. Her thumb brushed against the edge of the device, but she didn’t unlock it yet. For a moment, the world around her blurred, the muted chatter of children playing in the park, the distant hum of traffic, the rustling of leaves in the soft breeze. None of it registered.

Her thoughts were louder than any of it.

She had signed the contract.

The realization settled over her. She had sealed her fate, tethering herself to a woman whose world was as cold as the steel skyscrapers that loomed over the city. She had done it not for herself, but for them, for her family.

Her mother’s face floated to the forefront of her mind, etched with exhaustion from years of carrying a burden she was never meant to bear alone. Y/N remembered the way her mother used to smile, bright and unrestrained, a beacon of warmth in their home. But over the years, that smile had become rare, a faint shadow of what it once was. Y/N wanted to bring it back.

Then there were her younger siblings, still so full of life, so full of hope. She thought of her sister sketching dresses at the kitchen table with crayons, dreaming of becoming a designer. She thought of her brother, meticulously building castles out of old shoeboxes, telling anyone who would listen that one day he’d be an architect.

They deserved to dream.

Sliding her thumb across the screen, Y/N opened her notes app and stared at the blank space. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for a fraction of a second before she began to type.

“I’ll make this work.”

She stared at the sentence, her lips pressing into a thin line. The words weren’t just a promise, they were a lifeline, a tether to something stronger than her fear or doubt. They were a reminder of why she couldn’t fail.

Y/N’s chest rose and fell with a slow, deliberate breath. Her fingers brushed across the screen again, and for a fleeting moment, she thought about typing something more. Something about the uncertainty she felt, or the weight of the decision she had made.

But no. This was enough.

Sliding the phone back into her bag, Y/N stood. Her legs felt unsteady at first, like a newborn fawn’s, but she squared her shoulders and steadied herself. She couldn’t afford to falter now.

She cast one last glance at the park around her. A couple laughed as they walked hand in hand, their carefree joy like a far off memory. A boy chased after a kite, his delighted shouts rising above the rustle of the breeze. For a moment, she let herself imagine a life where she didn’t have to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders.

But that wasn’t her reality.

Giselle’s world was cold and unyielding, a place where people were assets and trust was a rare commodity. Y/N knew that stepping into that world meant losing pieces of herself, her warmth, her softness, maybe even her hope.

But it was also her chance to escape the shadow of her past.

For her family, she would endure anything.

With that thought anchoring her, she turned on her heel and walked away, the echoes of her determination carrying her forward.

#kpop imagines #girl group imagines #gg x reader #kpop x reader #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa giselle x reader #aeri uchinaga x reader #giselle x fem reader #giselle x reader #a contract of silence

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wordsofwhimsy · 3 months ago

Text

𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘈𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 - 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘍𝘪𝘷𝘦

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader | Sinister!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of abuse

→ Part Four ←

The fluorescent lights of the Guardian’s of the Globe HQ buzzed overhead as Cecil stood at the front of the meeting room, pacing slowly back and forth. The Mark Variants sat around the table in various states of attention, some more engaged than others, as Cecil went through the rundown of the day’s events. The tension in the room was palpable, though no one could pinpoint exactly why.

“Alright, folks,” Cecil started, flipping through a few pages on his tablet. “Let's break down today’s operations, starting with the biggest failure.” His eyes turned to land on Sinister Mark who was sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable.

“The Louvre was attacked this afternoon,” Cecil continued, his voice tinged with disappointment. “A criminal organization, likely out of France, managed to breach security and make off with the Mona Lisa. Local authorities are calling it the biggest heist in the country’s history. You were supposed to be on patrol there. What happened?”

S.Mark didn’t answer right away. He sat up slightly, his eyes dark, scanning the room as though looking for an out. But instead, he just muttered, “I had it under control. It was just… a bad timing issue.”

Cecil wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t push it further. His gaze moved to the next variant.

M.Mark, who had been staring blankly at the table, blinked and snapped his focus back to Cecil’s voice when he realized he was being addressed. Cecil had asked some kind of question about how his mission went.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, his tone flat. “Everything went fine.”

But his words were distant, like he wasn’t really listening to himself speak.

Cecil raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “The rest of you did pretty good work, particularly with keeping those rogue supers in check. Maybe a little overboard….” His statement trailed into a murmur more to himself than anything, before giving his full attention back to the group. “We’ll have to follow up to see how we can improve coverage in Europe. But for now, I think we can all agree it’s been a relatively successful day, despite a few hiccups.”

A few mumbles of agreement rippled through the collection of variants, but M.Mark remained unfazed, still caught up in his thoughts, the weight of his own internal turmoil pressing on him like a fog.

Then, a loud smack against his back broke through the haze.

"Hey, Mohawk!" Lensless Mark grinned, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “You still daydreaming, or are you actually paying attention now?”

M.Mark blinked again, shaking his head as if to clear the fog. “Yeah, yeah, I’m paying attention.”

Lensless Mark’s grin only widened. “Good, ‘cause there’s a celebration at that weird, GDA-owned bar tonight. Heroes only, you know the drill. It’s to commemorate another day of saving the world.” His words came out almost wistfully, the sparkle on his teeth as he grinned a testament to his own vanity. “You in?”

The words barely registered for a moment, but then something shifted in M.Mark. The mention of the bar caught his attention in a way that the rest of the conversation hadn’t.

Right. The GDA bar. The one reserved exclusively for heroes. A place for their kind to unwind and bond after a successful day of work. The other variants would be there.

“Yeah,” M.Mark muttered, still feeling slightly detached from the conversation but more invested than he’d been all day. “I’ll go.”

The meeting wrapped up soon after that, and as the group disbanded, M.Mark found himself slipping into a haze again, his thoughts consumed by images of you. His mind’s eye refused to leave your perfect form—your smile, your laugh, the warmth that always radiated from you. He longed to be close to you, and that desperate craving seemed to only grow stronger by the day.

—

The bar hummed with chatter and clinking glasses, the usual post-hero celebration. It was one of those rare moments when everyone let down their guard—when the weight of being a hero didn’t feel so heavy. Most of the variants had shown up, celebrating the victories and drowning out the day's stresses.

Sinister Mark was the only one missing.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” he’d said earlier, his voice low and clipped. “Got somewhere to be.”

No one pressed him on it. That was just the way S.Mark was—detached, always in his own world, never really willing to join in on the camaraderie.

M.Mark sat at the counter, a bottle of beer in front of him that he wasn’t really drinking. His mind was still elsewhere, apparently permanently lost in a haze he couldn’t shake.

Lensless Mark slid onto the stool next to him, his usual grin plastered across his face as he took a long drink. “Hey, what’s up with you, man?” he asked, nudging M.Mark with an elbow. “You’ve been zoning out all night.”

M.Mark let out a long, almost imperceptible sigh, barely noticing Lensless Mark. He kept his eyes on the bottle, feeling the alcohol working its way through him but not enough to numb the thoughts that circled relentlessly in his mind. There was you.

“Not much,” M.Mark muttered, still staring at the bottle.

Lensless Mark raised an eyebrow, turning his body more toward him. “You’ve gotta be thinking about something,” he prodded. “You’re looking like a man on a mission or some shit. Got a girl on your mind?”

The words pierced through M.Mark’s fog. A smile tugged at the corner of Lensless Mark’s mouth, but M.Mark wasn’t amused.

“Yeah,” he answered, his rough voice softer than usual. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Lensless Mark blinked, clearly intrigued. “A girl? From the GDA?” His tone carried a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.

Mohawk Mark’s eyes flickered up, his gaze meeting Lensless Mark’s. For a split second, he felt exposed, but then he just shrugged, as though it didn’t matter. The weight of the truth was already too heavy to hide.

“It’s [Name],” he said, almost in a whisper, like he was admitting a guilty pleasure.

Lensless Mark froze, his bottle halfway to his mouth. He stared at M.Mark for a beat before lowering the drink. “Wait—you mean bumblebee-fuck’s girlfriend?”

The words hung in the air, thick with disbelief. M.Mark didn’t answer immediately, but his face betrayed the obvious truth – you were all that was on his mind.

“Yeah,” M.Mark said, his voice barely audible. “It’s her.”

Lensless Mark’s head tilted slightly as he processed it. “Hmm. Interesting,” he said slowly, then shook his head. “But I don’t get it, man. She’s not even… wild enough for you two. I thought you were into chaos, you know? She's kind of, well... normal.”

He said the word like it was a punchline, as if it explained everything.

“Not crazy enough for me?” M.Mark echoed with a bitter chuckle. “You think that’s what matters? The crazy? She's not just some game to be played. She's—” He cut himself off, feeling that familiar ache in his chest. The way you looked at him. The way you felt real. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the neck of the beer bottle.

Lensless Mark gave him a lopsided grin, clearly unfazed by the weight of his counterparts words. “I don’t know, man. I like ‘em wild. But you? You’re better off. You don’t need Sinister Mark’s sloppy seconds.”

The words landed like a challenge, but M.Mark didn’t feel the rush of defiance he expected. Instead, something else hit him, something like clarity.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he muttered. “But she deserves more than what that bastard can offer. She’s way above his level. She’s…” He trailed off, his voice going soft as he thought about you once again. “She’s better than anyone else. It's not even close.”

Lensless Mark gave a short laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Damn, dude. You’re whipped already.” He shrugged, unbothered by the intensity of M.Mark’s words. “Fuck it. Who cares what that asshole thinks? Go make her yours. Fuck that guy.”

The advice was simple, almost too simple, but it felt like the only thing M.Mark needed to hear. For a second, it almost felt like a challenge he was ready to face.

But before he could even reply, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The vibration was sharp, pulling him back from his thoughts.

“Who the hell would be calling you?” Lensless Mark asked, a little distracted but still curious.

M.Mark fumbled for his phone, not recognizing the number that flashed on the screen. His thumb hesitated over the screen.

“I don’t know,” he muttered in response, looking at the unfamiliar number.

Lensless Mark leaned over, trying to see the screen. “Answer it. It’s probably something interesting. Or a debt collector.”

M.Mark shot him a wry look but answered the call anyway. “Hello?”

*Readers POV*

You walked down the street of the familiar neighborhood, your fingers tracing the edge of your purse. You hadn’t felt this anxious in a long time. You were on a mission.

A simple mission. One to bring a little joy back into something broken.

The liquor store’s bell jingled as you entered, making your way straight to the back and picking up a bottle of brandy. The smooth amber liquid would be perfect for him—your boyfriend’s drink of choice. The bottle felt heavy in your hand, a small comfort in the storm of uncertainty that had settled in your chest. Along with it, you picked up a bottle of wine—the kind you liked. A little indulgence for yourself.

You couldn’t help but hum a quiet tune as you imagined how tonight would go. A quiet dinner. The two of you talking, reconnecting. You had missed him. You had missed this.

But as you paid and made your way out of the store, you froze.

Across the street, at the strip club, there he was—your significant other. The man you loved, walking out with a woman under each arm, both of them giggling, their arms draped casually around him.

Your stomach dropped as your heart thudded painfully in your chest. The anger surged first—sharp, bitter, and overwhelming. Then sadness settled in, cold and heavy. You felt a deep wave of embarrassment come over you. The kind of embarrassment that gnawed at your skin, reminding you of everything you had hoped for that was now crumbling.

Without thinking, your feet moved toward him but then stopped. Your body shook, but not from the cold. You remembered the bruises. The broken bones. The haunting memories of the times you’d crossed a line with him before, and the “lessons” he taught you in kind.

Your hand gripped the bag of alcohol in a vice, and your thoughts spiraled. You couldn’t do it. Not again. You would never let yourself go through the pain of his hands again.

Instead you turned away, your feet stumbling as you walked faster, away from the anger, away from him, tears blurring your vision. The cold air didn’t soothe you, didn’t offer anything but an empty space in your chest. You stumbled into your house, throwing the door open with a shaky hand before collapsing onto the couch and letting the bottle of wine open, uncaring.

Hours passed, and you had slipped into a mess of tears and liquor. The house felt suffocating, even with all the windows open. The flickering light from the kitchen bulb cast long, distorted shadows across the room as you poured yourself another glass of wine. You didn’t know why you were drinking, why you kept trying to drown the anger and pain in the bottle. It wasn’t like it would fix anything. But the alcohol helped you forget, if only for a little while.

Your eyes blurred with the sting of tears that wouldn’t stop coming, and you cursed yourself for being so weak. Why the hell do I even care? Your mind screamed, fingers gripping the glass so hard it almost hurt.

You hated him. Hated Mark for making you feel like you weren’t enough, for making you believe that somehow you had done something wrong when all you ever wanted to do was love him. That’s all I ever wanted, you thought bitterly, and he couldn’t even give me that.

Your breath hitched, a sob catching in your throat as you lifted the glass to your lips, but you barely tasted the wine. It burned as it slid down your throat, an empty sting that matched the one gnawing at your chest. You threw the glass down onto the table with a clink, tears spilling down your cheeks in angry streaks.

“Fuck you, Mark,” you whispered through clenched teeth, your voice shaking with a mix of fury and grief. “You’re a fucking asshole. You don’t even care, do you? Not a single fucking care about anyone but yourself.”

You laughed bitterly at the thought, wiping your face with the back of your hand. I’m just some stupid girl to him, aren’t I? you thought, wiping away more tears, furious at yourself for letting it hurt this much.

You knew better. You knew what kind of man he was. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d always convinced yourself that maybe, just maybe, he could change. But no. He hadn’t. He never would.

You’re worthless, the thought echoed in her mind. You’re nothing but someone he can push around when it’s convenient for him.

The floodgates opened, and your sobs became more violent, your body shaking with the force of them. You couldn’t stop yourself—couldn’t stop the wave of anger and sadness crashing over you like a monsoon. You cursed him again, your voice breaking, “I gave you everything, and you just... just...” You couldn’t finish the sentence. It felt pointless to even try. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve anything from you.

Your mind was spinning, the vicious cycle of self-loathing and fury carrying you further down into the abyss. But then, just as you were about to curl up in the misery of it all, something shifted. A flash of someone—someone else—cut through your thoughts like a sharp breath of air.

M.Mark.

You blinked, the image of his face flashing in your mind. The way he had looked at you with that quiet, reverent gaze. He’d always been so kind, in his own weird way. Checking on her randomly when it felt like she was invisible to everyone else in the world.

He came to my house earlier tonight... you thought, your breath catching in your chest. Ypu remembered the knock on your door, the brief moment when your eyes had met. He hadn’t said much, but there was something in his expression that said it all. He cared about you. For reasons you didn’t understand, but the feeling of warmth it gave you was just the same.

Your tears slowed, the storm inside you beginning to settle. The anger that had once consumed you began to dissipate, replaced by something softer, something you hadn’t felt in a while—peace.

You sniffed, wiping your face with the sleeve of your shirt, then stood up shakily from the couch. Your mind was clearer now, the haze of alcohol and emotion giving way to something that felt more tangible.

I need to do something, you thought, the realization hitting you suddenly. I need to talk to him.

Without thinking, you shuffled into the kitchen, hands still trembling as you rummaged through the drawers. You didn’t know why—or maybe you did—but you were looking for the list. The list Cecil had given you. It was tucked away somewhere, a list of phone numbers for all the GDA heroes, including the variants. You had almost forgotten about it in your rush to block out the world, but now, it was the one thing that felt like it could pull you out of the darkness.

You rifled through the drawers, throwing aside papers, random tools and clips, a few stray utensils, your heart pounding as you searched. Your vision swam from the tears and alcohol, your movements sloppy, desperate. You didn’t care about the mess you were making. Yoi just needed to find it.

And then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, there it was. The crumpled list, the ink slightly smudged from where it had been stuffed into the drawer. You pulled it out, your fingers clumsily brushing over the names until you found what you were looking for.

M.Mark’s number.

Your heart skipped. You hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t even realized you’d been searching for it until now. But there it was, clear as day.

You stared at the number for a long moment, a million thoughts buzzed through your head in a frenzy, spinning faster, louder. What were you even doing? And should you? Could you? It felt insane, but in this state of confusion and hurt, he felt like the only one who might understand.

And before you could second-guess yourself, you dialed.

The phone rang once. Twice.

And then, finally, he answered.

“Hello?”

And in that moment, the world outside faded. You exhaled, a mix of relief and anticipation building.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

→ Part Six ←

#invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #variant!mark x reader #mark grayson fanfic

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svnscape · 1 month ago

Text

20 - hold that thought

tw: mention of excessive drinking habits

a/n : long chapter ahead

“come on we’re gonna be late !” renjun yelled from your living room as both you and lara were still getting ready.

you don’t why you’ve agreed to go knowing how bad the last party went like, but specially that you weren’t someone who enjoyed partying nor enjoyed going to frats.

lara interrupts your thoughts by giving you a back hug while you stood in front of the full length mirror, “you’re gonna be okay tonight ?”

“why wouldn’t i be ?”

“i’m sure jeno and mark will be there, no ?”

you sigh, “i don’t think jeno would and as for mark, i don’t really care, he’s the one who did me wrong why should i be the one avoiding him”

yeah but still

“you’re right baby” she smiles at you, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek.

“you look absolutely stunning by the way” she adds “i’m sure someone tonight will take your mind off of him”

“lara !” you smack her arm with a loud laugh.

she grimaces and continues laughing “you think haechan is an option ? i don’t know how i’ll feel about it but not gonna lie, it’ll be so sexy though, fucking your like, nemesis” she says between air quotes

“never. he’s unfuckable and just because we’re cordial at the moment doesn’t mean that i hate him any less by the way” you say, taking one last look at yourself in the mirror before grabbing your bag to head to the living room.

“he’s kinda cute if he knew how to shut up and be decent” lara sighs

“who’s cute ?” renjun peeks from his phone upon your arrival

“haechan” lara answers him, wiggling her eyebrows

“he is actually, he’s just a bitch and y/n’s sworn competition” he fixes his hair looking at his phone’s camera before standing up “can we fucking go now”

“yeah yeah” you sigh.

the three of you arrive at the familiar frat house that you’ve unfortunately, memorized top to bottom.

unexpectedly, there wasn’t a lot of people and you’re sure you weren’t there early.

as if renjun was able to read your mind, he looks your way and smiles

“this is sexily intimate, exclusive parties are never packed and it makes it so much better for you know, gossip” he smirks.

“of course you’d eat the hell out of gossip” lara nudges him

“look who’s talking !” renjun smacks her back

“does this mean you’re finally gonna shoot your shot at jaemin ?” she asks him as you’ve finally all reached the main gate.

“i’ll try. i always get flustered when i see him, his eyes are so doey and big” he shakes his head shyly.

in front of the gate was a frat guy you didn’t recognize, his light brown hair covered his forehead as he held a typical red plastic cup, an obnoxiously small tablet in his other hand.

“shoo shoo babygirl, get to the front, you’re the one who got us invited” renjun sing songs

“ugh i already hate this” you groan but do as he says, walking in front of them, trying to manifest the very last bit of confidence you’ve had left.

the boy looks up from his over the board bright tablet, eyeing you up and down before he lazily asks you

“got an invite ?”

“uh verbally ? i mean by text” you answer back awkwardly

“who invited you ?”

“haechan”

his eyes light up and he flashes you a big smile

“holdup… you’re y/n? ma-”

“y/n ! you’ve made it” you hear haechan from behind him as he puts an arm around that boy’s shoulders and grips his neck tightly making wince in pain.

“sorry for the up the notch security, we take exclusive parties seriously” he gives you a grin that you reciprocate with a cringe, probably.

“uh no worries. thanks for the invitation”

“of course. hi renjun and lara” he winks at your two friends behind you

they both answer him with a nod as lara grips your arm protectively.

“okay move away yangyang, let the baddies in” he smacks the boy which you’ve learned was called yangyang and gestures with a swift hand move, for you to follow him.

the three of you walk behind him as he waddles overconfidently.

the front yard had a few people sitting down on the grass smoking stuff you probably shouldn’t even question, while soft ambiance music was playing in the background.

haechan doesn’t stop there and takes you three from the side of the house, to lead you to the huge backyard where the pool and jacuzzi were at.

“here we go” he turns around dramatically, giving you a wink.

can he like not ?

“i hope you enjoy the pool, it’s warm as hell”

you look to the side and see a few people that you don’t necessarily know, swimming and chatting around.

you recognize jaemin, confidently sitting by the side of the pool, a glass of wine in his hand and a towel around his shoulders.

“oh my god he’s so hot” renjun whispers to you which makes you roll your eyes

“keep it down horn dog” you hiss

next to jaemin were who you think is chenle, who you’ve recognized from his nctu eagles jersey and another boy who was struggling to keep eye contact with you.

“oh yeah, those are my homies, na jaemin, zhong chenle and park jisung. don’t bother, they’re all losers” haechan claps his hands together, giving them the middle finger which jaemin returned before blowing him a kiss and winking at the rest of you.

“did he just- did he just wink at me?” renjun asks, a shaky hand making its way to his chest

“jaemin would wink at a squirrel, don’t take it personally” haechan deadpans.

renjun rolls his eyes and confidently makes his way towards the side of the pool where jaemin was seated at and removes his shirt before jumping inside.

“someone has a crush ?” haechan laughs

“oh yes” lara says still eyeing renjun’s attempts to swim but ending up looking like a twelve year who had just learned how to swim

“thank god we have jeno on lifeguard duty” haechan chuckles

you almost choked on your spit, coughing uncomfortably upon hearing jeno’s name and as if on cue, you see him coming out from inside the house, shirtless, with a towel spread on one shoulder, eyes looking straight at the pool.

he doesn’t see you as he’s too focused on watching renjun struggle in the pool which irks haechan and makes him say out loud, extending his arm towards him.

“thank you JENO for your service. might wanna save that kid” he smirks, gesturing with his head towards renjun.

jeno looks away from the pool to look at haechan before quickly catching a glance at you, trying his best not to give away anything about how he’s feeling.

“nobody should’ve let renjun inside the pool” he says quietly “RENJUN!” he yells for him

haechan laughs in the background as your eyes followed jeno, who throws himself inside the pool to join renjun.

“he’s so ice cold” haechan shakes his head.

both you and lara don’t respond and shift uncomfortably.

“well lara if you don’t mind, i’m gonna take y/n a few minutes away from you” haechan smiles widely at her, dimple showing.

he has dimples ? since when..

focus y/n

“uh sure” lara nods before letting you go.

at the last minute, she softly grabs your hand and mouths dramatically: text me!

you give her a frantic nod and follow haechan inside the house

“sorry for that” he chuckles “just wanted to have a few moments with you to apologize for how i’ve been acting in lab. you’re right, i’ve always been hangover and not on my best behavior and i realized, it must’ve been giving you a hard time” he says, almost sincerely

“it’s okay. at least you’re apologizing for it now”

“yeah” he smiles “beer ? realized how dumb i looked ordering wine for this birthday party but yeah, i can give you wine if you want”

“i’ll take a beer thanks”

he nods, crouching down to pick up a beer from the cooler, a huge sigmaphi logo plastered on it.

he opens it for you before handing it to you with a dramatic bow

“thanks” you giggle

he gives you a nonchalant nod and continues walking

“not to pry you know, i know we’re not there yet” he takes a sip of his beer “but is something going on with you and jeno ? i know he’s cold by nature but i thought you two were very close”

you sigh, wiping your mouth before speaking

“kinda not on speaking terms right now”

“oh shit sorry. big fight ?” he looks at you curiously

“difference in opinions” you answer back almost immediately

“happened before ?”

damn was he curious

“uh, not for this long” you answer him, looking down at the floor.

“his loss you know, i’m sure he was in the wrong” he sighs dramatically

you laugh, genuinely, which takes you by surprise and you try to hide it with a cough which makes haechan scoff amusedly.

“wanna try the jacuzzi and get your mind off of lee jeno” he takes the beer away from your hand and sets it down on a random counter

“uh sure yeah” you nod, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear

“okay let me get us some more drinks, you can go there first, i’ll be right back”

you nod and watch him take his jacket off, the white and green tank top that he was wearing, with the sigmaphi logo on, was hugging his figure nicely which made you quickly look away, shyly making your way back to the backyard and towards the jacuzzi.

it was placed in a rather secluded area in the backyard, where just a few people were sitting down on the grass, chugging down drinks and smoking all sorts of things.

you see a rather tall man come out of the jacuzzi, his figure catching your attention as he had a stupid birthday hat on his head that spelled “birthday boy”.

so this is jaehyun ?

he catches you looking at him and gives you a quick nod which you answer with a very quiet “happy birthday”

“thank you. enjoy the party” he says causally, as he walks past you.

you smile to yourself and continue walking towards your destination.

another shirtless man, there was so many, you thought, was standing in front of the jacuzzi, his back to you, as he was shuffling with some stuff

you were barely able to see anything as the light from inside the, way too fancy for a frat party, jacuzzi were blinding you, making you put a forearm above your eyes and on your forehead.

you quietly clear your throat and try to speak up as the sound of the water running was muffling everything

“uh are you gonna use it?”

the man standing jumps up but quickly recovers, shuffling again with his stuff frantically.

he doesn’t answer you though which you thought was valid considering how loud this thing was.

“hello, sorry i was ask-” you tap his shoulder

but he cuts you off by turning around.

you barely recognized him.

his hair has grown so much and was dyed to a very light brown color that unfortunately, matched his dark eyebrows and features perfectly, making you almost wince in nostalgia.

his body looked the same to you, his body lines that you’ve spent nights memorizing were looking right back at you, almost in a mocking manner, as you tried so hard to look away but ultimately failing miserably.

his familiar guitar abused fingers were awkwardly wrapped around his wrist, a habit you knew he always did when he was nervous.

it felt like you were in his arms just yesterday and that whatever happened was just a horrible nightmare that you’ve just awoken from

“sorry i’m late, these dogs drank all of the beers”

you were barely able to hear haechan’s voice between the loud sound of the water running and the ringing of your ears.

“oh i’m seeing you’ve just met mark. mark this is y/n, a new friend of mine and my lab partner” he stands next to you, shoulder brushing against yours.

mark gulps, eyebrows furrowed, but he quickly recovers and flashes that smile that you’ve once adored, and maybe still do

“hi y/n”

“hi”

“damn this is awkward” haechan snorts “be more friendly mark! sorry y/n he just came back to uni, i think the lack of socializing for a year has taken a toll on him” haechan nudges you before setting the beers on the sides of the jacuzzi

mark didn’t say anything and was barely looking at you, his eyes darting away in every possible direction but you.

“wanna join us mark ? i think it’s time we catch up and speak” haechan yells from the jacuzzi, arms spread out confidently.

“no it’s alright. i’ll leave you both to it” mark scratches the back of his neck, bending down to pick up the shirt he had just dropped

“goodnight y/n” he whispers

“good-”

“come in y/n” haechan yells again, a beer already in his hand, head thrown back.

you don’t spare mark another look for you own good and mental stability and quickly remove the long shirt you’ve been wearing to cover your bright red swimsuit, making your way inside, sitting down next to haechan.

you could feel his eyes practically devouring you but ignore it as you snatch the beer from his hand and chug it down

“woah, you good?” he reacts, eyes wide in surprise

you groan as the bitter taste overwhelms your mouth, throwing away the empty can.

“that was my ex” you say, barely above a whisper

“what ? this shit’s loud as f-” he points next to him at the water running, his index finger moving dramatically

“mark is my ex!” you yell

haechan looks at you in silence.

you couldn’t decipher his facial expression but his eyes were intensely fixed on you

“sorry. that’s must’ve been shitty for you… or him! if you broke up with hi-“

“he broke up with me”

haechan nods. opens another beer and silently hands it to you.

“wanna talk about it ? i’m a very good listener by the way” he tries to joke around

you smile, cheeks feeling hot from the heat of the jacuzzi and the alcohol slowing getting to you.

“dated him end of freshman year of college. i was so in love with him and i thought he was too. felt like i was so understood by him and we shared the same humor and interests. i had wanted to major in music and he was a music major, so we bonded over that. spent countless of nights writing songs together and singing them after we fought over what kind of melody we should compose” you take a break to smile as the memories come back flooding.

“i was so happy but then he slowly started to change. he would leave me on read when i messaged him or not show up to a date. and when he did show up he was so distant and seemed like his mind was on something else. then i felt like he started to drink more and wasn’t able to write a single lyric without having a drink first, but i never took it seriously cause it didn’t seem like a problem af the time, and maybe it never was, i don’t know. and then one day, he just sends me a text saying that he’s gonna be leaving uni and that whatever we had was distracting him from pursuing his music career”

you take a breath before continuing, “turns out i was just a distraction” you chuckle bitterly

haechan looks at you, an almost apologetic expression on his face that quickly fades away when you look back at him.

“he’s a piece of shit”

“yeah” you laugh “a big one”

“nasty one too” he laughs, pearly white teeth showing

you don’t know if it’s the alcohol creeping up on you or this whole situation clouding your judgment and taking away some of your functioning brain cells, but you thought haechan looked so beautiful at that moment.

head thrown back in relaxation, cheeks rosy from the heat of the water, hair wet and slicked back and a huge smile on his face.

focus y/n, that’s literally fucking lee haechan

“you still love him ?” he brings you back from your intoxicated thoughts

“i don’t think so”

“good” he smiles

“good ?”

“he doesn’t deserve you” he shrugs

you giggle at that, a bit too loud.

yeah i should probably put that beer down this is embarrassing, you thought

“i like it when you laugh” haechan says, a serious look on his face

you don’t answer but smile at him, putting down the half empty beer on the side of the jacuzzi

“and you have a pretty smile” you say back at him, not daring to look at him.

“should we do something about it”

“i’m drunk”

haechan nods understandably.

“another day?”

“yeah hold that thought maybe”

“i definitely will” he smirks.

what the fuck ?

prev — m.list — next

taglist: @bbykaixx @alwayswonbinning @weepingsweep @dudekiss3r @kukkurookkoo @hoeingthefuckup @gomdoleemyson @haeclips @luvvhaechan @mwrsi @heegyuwrld @lubunnii @firydst @yushizzz @nahyuckers @httpsxnox @n0hyuck @hi00000234567 @scoobysnackszoo

a/n 2: sorry this was long af…

i don’t think i’m the best at writing so i’m sorry if this was boring 😭 but i was genuinely inspired which explains the length of this chapter

i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did writing it and i would love to hear what you think of this whole mark x y/n situation and also haechan’s behavior..

i personally kinda feel bad for y/n… but that’s just me 🧐

#nct #nct au #nct dream au #nct dream smau #nct dream x reader #nct x reader #nct smau #haechan fake texts #haechan fanfic #haechan fluff #haechan smau #haechan x reader #mark lee x reader #nct dream

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tojisun · 1 year ago

Text

im shaking in need my god pop star f!reader x hockey player price oh god oh god

EXCLUSIVE: john price (2), goalie for the specgru and a nominee for this year’s vezina, seen holding hands with a budding pop star of the era, five years his junior.

both are seen dining together and walking around downtown after this night's victorious game against the florida shadows. the two seemed to be engrossed in their conversation and are happy with each other.

it is important to note that price had stated two years ago that he was taking himself out of the dating market after divorce with now ex-beau martha castillo, his wife of four years. is he rescinding his statement? when was this relationship formed? did… (subscribe to suns net to read more)

"jesus," john rumbles, his words muffled behind his palm as he sags in his chair. he passes the tablet back to laswell, their manager, and refuses to make eye contact with anyone else in the group.

the team were the first to call him since the incident, the incessant ringing rousing him from his peaceful dream. he stretched his arm out to pluck his phone from the nightstand, careful not to jostle you awake.

in the end, his efforts were futile because your own team reached out to you. unlike the specgru's management team, yours were more prepared for the fiasco, sending threads of emails full of instructions how to deal with the situation.

it's not necessarily a scandal, not with how there were more people reacting in favour of the relationship, but john had always been a private person and he is just not used to how his relationship with you ended up being public just overnight.

it's not your fault, no matter how many times you've told him so. he knew what he was getting into when he pursued you. he told his team, their PR department, and even his parents about what might change. even martha was given a lengthy call, the two of them making arrangements how martha and her new wife could possibly avoid being pulled into the spotlight.

so really, everything's fine. it really is. it's just that you've been ignoring his calls since this all started, running out of his flat with a yelled, "be back!", only to disappear for hours. john is worried.

"lassie’s probably doing work. damage control an' all that—you know how it is in the bizz," johnny says, consoling.

"do you know how the 'bizz' even works, 'tavish?" kyle pipes in.

john hears a choked sound, then an abrupt yelp, before scuffling fills his ears.

great. now his team’s tussling.

“out,” kate’s voice pierces through his thoughts. “you all, out. you’re distracting.”

“but missus!” johnny whines, but he doesn’t get to say any more and john looks up, wanting to see how terrifying kate must have looked like to shut johnny up.

oh, yeah, he thinks. that'd put the fear of god in anyone, alright.

he watches as the team shuffles out, all of them sending him comforting smiles, before he’s left alone with kate and alex. kate sits in front of him. “run it by me again, john. where did she tell you she’d be?"

john licks the back of his teeth, hesitating, but before he can respond, his phone rings. three chirps pass when john was finally able to reach for it, ignoring the bewildered look that alex is giving him—kate, it seems, is not even shocked by how agile john is when it comes to you.

"hello?" he murmurs, turning away from his managers in lieu of privacy. from the reflection of the window, he sees alex look away too, in pretense with john, while kate continues to stare, scrutinizing.

"hi, baby," you chirp with a giggle as if you were not radio silent for four whole hours; the afternoon is about to swell at its peak, the summer sun sweltering from every corner of the city. "i missed you lots."

and just like that, john feels himself relaxing. his shoulders sag in the newfound comfort wafting from within his chest, his bruised lips—he didn't even know he had been biting them in his worry—slipping between his teeth, and his forehead easing from all his frowning.

john feels like he's won another game; like they've defeated the shadows and claimed the cup for themselves already.

"s'alright," he says, a touch softer. "all is well f'r you?"

"all is well," you reply, voice curling like you’re smiling. "i'm gonna do somethin' soon so all i ask is that you trust me, okay?"

"of course," john instantly replies before his mind could even comprehend what you just said. "wait what-"

"okay then. bye!"

the line drops just like that.

"oh god," kate hisses from behind john. john can't quite say he mirrors the sentiment because anything you do is good. everything that you are is bright.

he would trust you with a goal, if he could—you have his heart already, after all.

"holy shit!" mactavish shrieks before a phone is shoved underneath john's face.

he goes cross-eyed, blinded by the blue light for a minute, before he is finally able to push johnny's hand away. he plucks the phone from his friend, grunting when the rest of the squad flank him, heads butting his own as they try to get a glimpse of what was on mactavish's phone.

simon begins to laugh while kyle repeats johnny's words.

john can't blame them. holy shit indeed.

it was a new post from you, in instagram. it was a picture he remembers you asking him to take for you from the night before, all coy as you danced in front of him, both of you ignoring the obvious tent underneath his sweats.

"i want a keepsake," you murmured while batting your eyelashes. "please?"

"it's all yours, if you want," john remembers replying, all parched with his need.

"no," you said with a giggle. "a picture's enough."

"okay," he had said with a croak, his eyes blown wide as desire bloats from the pit of his belly.

so here it is now, posted for everyone's eyes in your account, the product of your seduction—you, sitting on the back your legs, stretching out on the bed, clothed in nothing but his jersey for a top—the bold and white-coloured 2 almost covers your whole back—and a black bikini for a bottom.

his eyes flit to the caption: comfy in his shirt. #letsgospecgru

"holy shit," john rasps out loud this time, his need growing teeth.

keller bursts into the locker room. “your turn to post with her merch.” he throws something at john and it is only his reflexes that allows him to catch it with his hands.

he looks at it—it’s a cream jumper sold during the release of your new album. the material is soft, the embroidery so smooth. the logo, even, is beautiful.

say less, he thought, already slipping out of his practice shirt and into the jumper.

[image]

pricejhn2: her number one fan #newalbum

#john price x reader #john price x f!reader #captain john price #tf 141 #john price #suns #hockey au #LOSING MY MIND THIS IS SO FUNNT #pls let me be delusional bc i would 100% cry if yall @ me with hatred in ur heart </33

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99liv3s · 1 year ago

Text

A Birthing Show

(Wrote in collaboration with @ashmallow)

The two girls waddled onto the small stage, applauded by the 10 members of the audience: 7 men and 3 women. These 10 had paid a considerable amount of money for exclusive access to what the girls were offering: the chance to witness and control both their labors. Monica was a short, pale, black haired girl with brown eyes, thin except for her noticable pregnant belly, her hair in a low ponytail that hung over her right shoulder. She was wearing a gray maternity gown that seemed to enhance her pregnancy features. The other girl, Ash, had shoulder length brown hair, a bit darker skin, and her eyes were brown as well. She was a bit taller than Monica, but not by much, and though she was a bit less skinny than Monica, Ash's bump looked considerably bigger. Ash was wearing a small shirt and a skirt, which protruded outward over her large belly.

The girls took their place in front of the waiting audience, showing off their protruding bellies, as the ten audience members settled in their seats. "Welcome," Monica said to them, smiling. "In a few moments, the pills the two of us ingested will put us into labor, and the show can begin!" "As the ad stated, you will all be here to witness us labor and give birth simultaneously, and as an added bonus," she pointed toward two tablets lying on a table in front of the audience, "Those pads there will control how our labors play out, giving all of you complete control of this experience!" "My name is Monica, and my fellow partner in birth is named Ash!" "We hope you all enjoy the experience, and thank you in advance for your generous payments!" On the stage were two chairs, which the girls both sat in, as well as two beds. The two of them rubbed their bellies absentmindedly as they smiled at the crowd. “I’m so nervous” Ash whispered to Monica, looking down at her big 34 week belly, wondering what the audience would do. "Me too." Monica whispered back, smiling at Ash as they waited for labor to begin, while the audience chatting with each other. One woman spoke up: "So, how does this even work?? How can we actually control your labors?" Monica smiled at her, rubbing her belly slightly. "The pills we took contain little microscopic machines that will settle into our lower bodies," Monica answered. "They're connected to the pads, and can do all kinds of stuff once they jumpstart labor!" The woman, beaming, nodded and thanked Monica for her answer. A minute later, Ash felt a twinge in her lower abdomin, and a sharp intake of breath indicated that Monica was feeling the same thing.

“Oh oh oh! I can feel contractions starting!” Ash gasped out, panting, though they were not very strong because it was still the early stage of labor. However, Ash could tell her cervix was trying to open, and she felt a lot of pressure building up on her lower back, radiating out towards her crotch and legs. "Oooh, I can too!" Monica panted out softly, clutching her belly as she felt the pressure start to build in her pelvis. The small crowd watched with smiles of wonder and entertainment on their faces. "Can you two touch each other's bellies?" Asked one guy in the back. In response, Monica and Ash started rubbing each other's bellies all over and bumping them gently together, giggling a bit. Then, they could all see Ash's belly visibly squeezing and relaxing. “Ahh… ahh… the contractions are getting harder!” she cried. Monica grimaced as she felt a contraction hit her as well. "Ooohh," she moaned out, as several people of the audience leaned forward, two in front grabbing the pads. "Yeah, mine are too!" “I think they’re making the baby more active!” Ash whispered as she felt her belly twist and turn with movements, as if the baby was turning upside down over and over, spinning inside her. Monica looked over at the watchers, seeing them tapping commands into both pads, and then a sudden surge of pressure hit her pelvis. "Uugghh!!" She cried out, clutching her bump, as Ash moaned from the pain of the active baby. "Uugh, let's... sway together," Monica suggested.

Ash held the sides of Monica's hips while Monica held Ash's, and they slowly swayed together to ease through the pain. Seeing the girls trying to relax, the audience was not satisfied. Suddenly, Ash's 2 cm dilated cervix became 5 cm dilated. “Ahhhhh I can feel the head trying to go through!!!” Ash moaned out. "B..breathe Ash... breathe through... aaggghhh!!" Monica began, but cried out as her pressure worsened, and she involuntarily spread her legs. "N..no... we mustn't push...yet... oooohh..." she groaned, clutching her belly as she felt herself opening quickly as well. The audience smiled at the girls' discomfort, and tapped more commands, causing both girls' water to break all over the stage. Panting, the two of them slowly scrambled to the nearby beds, and lowered themselves onto them. “Ahhhhh I can feel the head going into my birth canal!” Ash screamed out, holding her big belly in pain. “Ahhh… ahhh…” Her belly was contracting intensely, but one of the audience pressed a button, and her contractions grew even harder. “Ughhhhhhhh…” Lying on the other bed, Monica spread her legs and moaned loudly, squirming in pain. "Oooohh god, this hurts!!" She moaned. "The... p... pressure..." "Ash, it hurts!!" The two girls looked into each other's eyes, both locked in the pain of their labors and their moaning.

“I want you girls to strip naked.” An audience member said after they reached a calm point between contractions. The girls nodded, then they both stood up and reluctantly took off their clothes, revealing their big contracting bellies and swollen breasts, as well as their dilating vaginas. Ash's tits were milky, and as another contraction took her, more milk squirted from them. Still moaning and mewling, both girls laid back onto the beds completely naked. They knew it would have come to this sooner or later. As audience members played around with the tablets, Monica let out a loud, drawn out moan, clutching her belly as a huge amount of pressure hit her pelvis. Meanwhile, Ash felt her dilation increase rapidly, and the pressure on her hips increased as the baby's head painfully pressed against her cervix, which barely opened. Becoming quite aroused by Ash's milk squirts, the audience made her boobs start lactating more. Streams of milk ran down her breasts and onto the bed as she moaned loudly in pain from the dilation and contractions. "Can... we come and help suck that up?" A woman in the audience asked. Ash nodded, and half the watchers scrambled onto the stage, trying to drink up Ash's milk.

"Aaaahhh, it hurts so bad!!!" "OW OW OW AAHH I CAN'T AAAGHH!!" Monica yelled out, clutching her belly as she felt the pressure and pain ram her cervix hard. After a few high loud moans, she screamed out, "OOH, I GOTTA PUSH!" Ash felt her cervix dilate rapidly as well, and the heaviness of the head started to fill her vagina. The audience murmured in satisfaction to the girls' suffering. “Ahhhh I can feel the hair!” Ash screamed out, reaching down and feeling a sliver of the baby’s head trying to stretch her lips wide. “The pressure!!" "Ahhhhh… it burns… ahhhhhhh!” The burning was agony, but someone tapped a control, and Ash felt the head slip back in. Meanwhile, Monica thrashed around on her bed, moaning and crying, the pressure feeling like it would tear her apart. "IT'S GETTING WORSE!! AAAAHHH!" She screamed, her legs spread and trembling in pain. Monica involuntarily pushed, and she felt her pussy bulge outward. "OH GOD OH GOD AAAAHHH!" As the audience watched, they started to see just how big the head of Monica's baby seemed to be. With more loud howls of pain, Monica seemed to stretch more and more with each push. Ash cried out again as she once again felt her baby's head start to crown, but the audience kept making the head go back in every time she relaxed, prolonging her suffering. "OWW PLEASE LET IT OUT!" Ash begged, as the burning hit her over and over.

By now, those audience members that were trying to suck up Ash's milk had had their fill, and settled back into their seats to enjoy the show. Both girls' vaginas were on full display as they shouted and yelped in pain. Ash's baby had peeked out and gone back in another four times. Meanwhile, Monica was clearly struggling, a huge head still lodged in her opening. Ash suddenly screamed as the already overwhelming pressure hit her even harder, and her baby's head immediately shot out. As it hung out of her vagina, Ash moaned loudly, as it seemed her body had had enough of the baby playing peekaboo. The audience murmured in amazement, but at this point, the girls were in so much pain and agony of labor, they no longer cared what was happening around them. "Monica push!" Ash said over Monica's cries. "OOOOHH I'M TRYING..." Monica wailed out, and indeed, she had been pushing, but the head seemed to be stuck. With loud grunts and groans of effort, Monica tried to bear down again, but there was still no movement. "Maybe... change... positiaaaahhh" Ash began, but was distracted by her own baby's emergence. Ash pushed, and with a gush of fluid, her baby was fully born. The audience applauded and cheered as Ash reached for her newborn. It was a girl!

With some difficulty, Monica repositioned herself on the bed, finally getting onto her hands and knees, with her belly sitting on the soft bedsheets, which tickled her popped out navel. Her vagina now hanging in the air, everyone could now see just how big the baby's head was, but the change in position seemed to do the trick. Monica let out another wail as she pushed and the head eased out slowly. Ash watched along with the audience, as she waited for the contractions that would deliver her placenta. The audience tapped some commands that increased the intensity of Monica's contractions and she shrieked as her belly visibly pulsed. With a squishy pop, the head finally ejected from Monica's pussy and hung out of her in the air. "You did it Monica!" Ash cheered, as the audience murmured. She felt contractions and prepared to push out her placenta. However, as she listened to Monica pant, she started to feel pressure again. Monica, still on her hands and knees, looked over at Ash, who was grimacing in pain. "That was... rough... hey are you ok??" Monica asked. Ash shook her head, her eyes closed. "Placenta hurts that much?" Ash moaned softly, as the audience's murmured increased; They had definitely figured out that things were not going according to plan.

A few minutes later, the pressure increased, and Ash cried out, "OH GOD IT'S ANOTHER BABY!" Members of the audience gasped, as Monica began to wail again, her big baby deciding it was ready to finish coming out. Monica yelled and moaned as she pushed. Ash breathed heavily, feeling the strong contraction that would push the twin out of her. Ash bore down, already feeling the head hit her already sore vagina. The audience watched intently, so engrossed in the show before them, they seemed to had forgotten the pads. Monica's loud screams echoed throughout the room as the huge baby finally slid out of her and gently onto the bed. It was a big baby boy. Ash smiled, still panting, as she saw Monica finish giving birth, slumping onto the bed in exhaustion. Then, she felt the familiar burning, and screamed out as she felt her second baby crown. "OW OW AH AH AH AHHHH!!" With one more very painful push, the entire baby fell onto the bed beside her sister, and the twins cried loudly.

As the two girls panted exhaustedly, the 10 watchers got to their feet, clapping and cheering. Monica, who had turned back over and was lying on her back, holding her newborn in her arms, smiled softly. Ash continued to lay on the bed, her eyes closed as her twins, their cords still attached, both hanging out of Ash, squirmed and cried. "You both did amazing," one watcher said. "Yes, it was incredible!!" Another said. Clearly satisfied, the watchers filed out, chatting to each other about what they had witnessed, leaving the two girls alone on stage in the beds with their babies. Ash had scooped up her daughters and was now breastfeeding them. She smiled over at Monica, who was rocking her newborn to sleep. "Well, that was fun!" Ash said, holding her daughters on her breasts. "And we made lots of money too!" Monica smiled back at her, nodding. As much as it had hurt, she had to admit to herself that she also enjoyed the experience. "You know what, let's do it again soon!" She proposed. Ash giggled and nodded.

End

#birth #giving birth #pregnancy #childbirth

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